Cruel Mistresses
by rochesters
Summary: Just when Jack thought it was all over and he could return to his life, fate decided to throw him another curve ball.
1. Sorrow

**Cruel Mistresses**  
By: Rochesters

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** For obvious reasons that I have not seen _Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit_ so I have no idea what happens. This idea was running around my head for the past week and I decided to write it.

* * *

**Sorrow  
**

It starts a little like this: he and Cathy are riding in a town car to the airport, their pinkies hooked together and sitting in a comfortable silence. It is a grey afternoon and the clouds loom over the skyline comprised of old world architecture and sleek high rises.

The city of Moscow passes by them through tinted windows, blurring together when the car accelerates and coming into focus when they hit the famous traffic that this city to known for.

At least they are going home, this mess _finally_ behind them. They can go home, back to their apartment, back to their lives, and back to planning their wedding.

But first Jack wants to flop down in the familiarity of the bed they share and sleep, shutting out the rest of the world as his nerves unwind.

He estimates that it will take at least a month or two, if Cathy doesn't coax him back to reality.

"Jack," she says softly, drawing him out of his head. When he looks at her, she flashes him a sweet smile on those delicate lips. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

_Nothing and everything_, he thinks to himself as his lips are slow to smile. He is weary and Cathy knows it. "A number of things," he replies as his hand moves to hold hers. "What about you?"

Cathy rests her head against the headrest and shrugs. "A number of things," she echoes in a teasing manner. "When we get home, maybe we should go on a vacation. Get away for a little while."

"Staycation," he suggests with a lazy grin.

Cathy arches a brow in mirth. "A staycation it is then," she replies, leaning over to kiss him.

As their lips barely touch, that's when it happens: the car that seemingly comes out of nowhere and careens into theirs.

The impact knocks the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for oxygen as his body is seemingly pulled in every direction. Somewhere between slamming his head against the window and cracking the glass and the car crashing into a guardrail, he loses his grasp on Cathy's hand.

He doesn't remember her slipping through his fingers or the sound of her screaming (or if she even made a sound at all).

The car is stopped, the engine spurting until it finally dies, and there is glass everywhere when Jack opens his bleary eyes.

The pain multiples as light hits his pupils and he groans, shifting his battered body. It's a horrible idea and ignites a fire of searing pain throughout his person.

"Cathy," he moans, shifting against the leather of the seat. "Cathy…"

He sees her staring at him, her face covered in abrasions and a trail of blood that drips from a gash to her cheek. She is trembling and pale, her eyes wide in fear.

Jack goes to say her name again and ask if she's okay when the door behind her flies open, sending a gust of chilly air into the car.

The next few moments go like this: Jack watches her break eye contact, her pretty face turn towards the door.

Through blurred vision he can make out the familiar curves of her face and the brown of her hair.

And the gun with a silencer attached to the muzzle.

He's sure that his eyes widen and he's going to shout when the gun goes off, firing three bullets into Cathy's chest.

She flails like a rag doll and collapses onto her side, her hair obscuring her face as blood stains the front of her cream colored blouse.

Jack wants to scream himself raw, wants to crawl his way over to her and cradle her in his arms. And more than anything, he wants to die right along with her.

The door next to him opens and there is a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into the seat without using much force.

A sickly sweet smell fills his mouth and his nostrils, making him nauseous and lightheaded.

It takes a moment, but he realizes that there is a cloth over the lower portion of his face, put there by a glove covered hand that holds it firmly in place.

Jack doesn't struggle against the tears that cascade from his eyes or stifle his broken sobs that are muffled by the chloroform soaked cloth. He lets himself fade into a blissful oblivion, that is not as black as he imagined it to be.

It is hazel - like the color of moss caught between shade and sunlight.

* * *

He dreams and it goes something like this: there is someone chasing him down an empty street or perhaps he is doing the chasing.

Either way Jack is running and the faster he tries to go, the slower his steps become. It's like he's running in water and his limbs are made of lead.

The dark streets are illuminated by lamp posts, casting a green hue against everything the light touches.

Jack keeps running, despite the protest of his body, and when he gets to the end of the street, there is a man whose features he cannot discern.

Except for a pair of hazel eyes that stare at him through the darkness.

* * *

When he wakes up, it is not gradual, but a sudden jerk of his senses coming to life.

His mouth is dry like cotton and his stomach rolls in waves. He moans and it feels like the sound is ricocheting off every surface, making his head ache.

He hears someone addressing him, speaking in crisp Russian. It sounds like water running over pebbles embedded in the creek behind his aunt's house in upstate New York.

There are rough, calloused hands on his body, gently cupping his chin and lifting him to a recline. The cool surface of a cup to pressed to his parched lips, tilting the rim.

Jack feels the cool flow of water wet his lips and spread onto his tongue. It is slow and careful and not nearly enough. He drinks, allowing the water to rehydrate the tissues in his mouth, throat, and slosh around in his empty stomach.

He groans and with clumsy hands, pushes the cup away from him. The hands lower Jack back down onto a mattress, minding his throbbing head.

"Cathy," he whispers as he squeezes his eyes shut.

The hands are still touching him, tilting his head and examining his face. They are too big to be Cathy's and too rough, despite the gentle pressing against his burning skin. "_Nyet_," says a man's voice, honey thick and vodka soaked. "You rest now."

Jack groans, pressing his face into the mattress. "Cathy," he whispers again, struggling to keep his eyes open and focus on his surroundings.

It's dark. Pitch black and endless. Perhaps whomever is responsible for him being in this situation wants it that way; wants Jack disoriented and existing in fear.

"She's not here," the man answers as he gently pushes Jack down.

He hadn't even realized that he was struggling to get up. "What do you mean?" Jack asks. "What do you mean she's not here? Where is she?"

There is a long period of total silence, both Jack and the mystery man seemingly holding their breath.

"She is dead," the man finally says, his hands disappearing from Jack's face. There is a rustle of clothing, empty air left in his wake as the man stands up, and the sound of footsteps.

Jack feels like his body has suddenly been doused in ice water. He rolls onto his back, staring into the endless darkness, and swallows roughly. "You're lying," he rasps.

"You can think that," the man says, neutrally, as a lock is turned and a door opens, slipping dim light into the room. "But I do not lie. Lies are for cowards."

He leaves Jack alone in the darkness, where the young man cries himself to an uneasy slumber.

Jack wakes periodically, his body aching more than the last time as bruises blossom over his skin.

Sometimes the faceless man is there with food and water or with a black sack that he puts over Jack's head when he half carries him twenty paces to a toilet. He offers little assistance when Jack goes to relieve his bladder, except to pointing him in the right direction of the toilet bowl or the sink.

Other times, Jack wakes to darkness and listens to his surroundings. It is too quiet, but the silence still manages to lull him to sleep no less than ten minutes later.

Either scenario leads to one conclusion: Jack Ryan is certain that he will never see daylight again.

* * *

He estimates that he's been held captive for a little over two days when he develops a fever that makes his skin burn and his body shiver uncontrollably.

Jack keeps his knees pressed against his chest in a fetal position as he sweats and shakes on the mattress, ignoring the aches and pains that course through his body.

Sometimes he's delirious and thinks Cathy is there with him, pressing her cool, soft hands against his feverish skin. He can see her face in the darkness and hear her voice whispering into his ear as he pleads through gritted teeth for her to stay with him.

Sometimes the faceless man is there, pressing a cool compress against his forehead and the back of his neck as he harshly speaks in Russian into what Jack thinks may be a cell phone.

A blanket, thick and made of wool, is brought to him and laid over Jack's prone body, along with a pillow that could be a cinder block for all Jack cares. He is fed broth and water, which makes his stomach churn before he promptly vomits it onto the floor.

The man does not get angry when Jack rolls away from the smell and hides under the blanket. He cleans up the mess in silence and disappears through the door, only to come back later.

"Where am I?" Jack groans as a steady hand turns him onto his back. "Tell me where I am."

The door is ajar, letting yellow light stream into the room and over the faceless man who lingers above him.

Except he does have a face, a symmetric and pale heart shaped face with dark stubble over the exposed portions of his jaw. His dark hair is shaved into a buzz cut, revealing a divot in his skull.

A scar perhaps, though Jack's vision is swimming too much to tell.

"You are safe," the man tells him as he helps Jack sit up, cupping the base of his skull in one capable hand while the other presses a bitter pill into his mouth. "You are safe for now. Swallow. Pill will help with fever."

A cup of water is brought to Jack's lips, washing the bitter taste of the dissolving pill and the foul taste of bile away. He takes a few more sips before pulling away with a choked moan. "I _was_ safe," Jack says as the man lays him down. "I was going home."

"_Nyet_," the man says, tugging the blanket to Jack's collarbone. "You were not safe. FSB would have killed you before you board plane. That woman…she would have killed you."

Jack eyes begin to burn with tears. "No," he chokes, "She was my _fiancé_."

"She was FSB," the man states, leaning just so that Jack catches a glimpse of one of his hazel eyes. "You were a hit."

Jack swallows back the sob in his throat. "No…she was my fiancé," he repeats, his anger and despair growing. "Cathy was my fiancé. We were going to get married -"

"Her name was Katarina Zhigunova," the man cuts in, his words slicing like a knife. "She was FSB. I know. I helped recruit her."

Jack feels his lips trembling and tears spilling out the sides of his eyes. "No…her name was Cathy Mueller," he cries softly into the darkness. "She was born in Chicago and I met her at a house party during my first year of graduate school."

"Her name _was_ Katarina Zhigunova and she was born in St. Petersburg," the man tells Jack, watching the younger man was his resolve crumbles. "The woman you met at this…_house party_…her name was Cathy Mueller, but it was not her."

Jack shakes his head. "It was her."

"_Nyet_," the man says in such a casual manner. "At this house party…you were drinking yes?"

Jack lets out a strangled sob, nodding his head. If memory serves correctly, he did a keg stand with the help of his friends before practically toppling into the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

"Katarina was at this party," the man explains. "She watched you with this woman…Cathy Mueller. The number she wrote down, Katarina switched it. You called wrong woman."

Jack sucks in a breath. "No…I remember her. I remember what she wore that night. I remember _everything_ about her."

"You were drunk, yes?" Jack's silence is enough of an answer for the man. "You had what you Americans call _beer goggles_."

He would have laughed at the way the man said those words, but all Jack can do is dissolve into a series of whimpers as he curls onto his side. A hand touches the span of skin where his neck and shoulder meet.

"When you are well, I will show you file," the man tells him, giving his skin a gentle squeeze.

He makes his exit, leaving the cup of water next to the mattress and Jack alone to his misery.

* * *

Jack is barely coherent when he wakes up in a bed - a real bed. He lies naked underneath layers of bed linens and his skin does not burn as it once did. This is as far as Jack gets before he closes his eyes, catching a glimpse of the man closing the curtains that hang on either side of the picture window that is off to the side.

He can't help but wonder why the man - his kidnapper - looks so relieved.

* * *

The next time he wakes, Jack sees a blonde woman sitting under the window, which fills the room with natural light. His blue eyes adjust to the light, having been deprived for so long, and after blinking away the last tendrils of sleep, Jack sees that the woman is smartly dressed and scouring over a folder that rests in her lap.

"You want to know where you are and why," she says without looking up.

Jack is surprised that she is addressing him, seeing how she seemed so engrossed by her reading. He pushes himself to his elbows and glances around the room.

The room is ornately decorated with rich wood paneling, brightly painted plaster, and heavily carved wooden furniture, such as the four poster bed Jack lies in.

He wonders if he's been here the whole time, but something in his gut says that he hasn't.

"You are located in a safe house in Minsk and you're here because I want to make you an offer, Mr. Ryan," the woman tells him as she closes the folder and looks at him. She has delicately cut features and murky blue eyes.

Jack stares at her, dumbstruck and his head swimming.

"You are Jack Ryan, a covert CIA analyst," she says without prompting. "You were educated at Boston College, earning a degree in Economics and a minor in History. William Harper recruited you after your graduation from Harvard Business School and as of three months ago, you went live."

Jack swallows the bile that is inching up into his throat. "How," he stutters. "How did you know?"

"My name is Pamela Landy," the woman says as walks towards the foot of the bed, her arms folded in front of her. "Deputy Director of the CIA."

He flies to the edge of the bed and vomits up the meager contents of his stomach.

It's quite embarrassing, to be honest.

Pamela Landy is unfazed and pulls out her cell phone. "It's me," she says. "He's awake. Bring a clean-up crew."

Jack is wiping his mouth with a shaking hand as he falls back on the pillows. He catches Pamela studying him as she listening to the person on the other end.

"Why?" she snaps into the phone. "He just got sick all over the floor, Tom! Yes, well, I guess I have that effect on people." Pamela goes quiet again, her eyes never leaving Jack. "And tell Kirill to bring the file."

The call ends and her laser beam gaze is still on him.

Jack swallows, tasting the remnants of stomach acids and broth. "How long have I been here?" he asks, watching Pamela as she walks over to a table pressed up against the wall closest to the door. A glass jug of water sits on a tray, next to an empty glass.

Pamela fills the glass and brings it over to him, gesturing for Jack to take it. "Five days," she says as Jack brings the glass to his lips, watching him drink. "Kirill notified me that your fever took a turn for the worse and we transported you out of Russia."

"Why?"

Pamela raises a brow. "You are too valuable," she replies. "Harper and the FSB may have wanted you dead -"

Jack chokes on his next sip of water, feeling the liquid burn all the way down his throat. His eyes water and he barks out a cough, nearly spilling the contents of the glass on the comforter. "Harper?" he rasps.

"Yes," Pamela says as she pries the glass out of Jack's hand and watches him catch his breath. "Harper was working with the FSB and Viktor Cherevin. You foiled their plans, so you had to be taken care of."

"What?" Jack chokes out in disbelief.

"Harper had his eye on you since your first year at Harvard, Mr. Ryan," Pamela says plainly. "He couldn't approach you so early, so he had some help."

"Cathy," Jack murmurs.

Pamela nods. "Katarina Zhigunova," she corrects. "She posed as Cathy Mueller to get close to you and she filtered what she learned back to Harper and Cherevin. When Harper deemed that you were ready, he recruited you. The rest is history, as they say. You were able to stop Cherevin, something Harper and the FSB didn't count on, _especially_ from a rookie."

The door to the room creaks open. Two attendants enter with cleaning supplies and neither look at Jack or Pamela as they beeline towards the vomit that is soaking into the carpet.

Behind them are two men, one wearing an expensive suit and approaching his mid-forties, and the other who looks vaguely familiar.

Jack closes his eyes briefly, remember the man's face as he closed the curtains with a single motion. When he opens his eyes, both men are standing next to Pamela. The older man is conferring with her in voice too low for Jack to hear clearly while the other man stares back at him with hazel-green eyes.

In daylight, he is tall and slender with pale skin and dark features. He's attractive in that Eastern European sort of way, if one likes the slow to smile and brooding types.

"Mr. Ryan," Pamela calls.

Jack and the man break eye contact to turn their stare to the Deputy Director just as the two attendants exit as quietly as they came, shutting the door behind them.

"Misters Tom Cronin and Viktor Kirill," Pamela says, gesturing to both them with a wave of her hand. "Tom is my right hand man…"

Before Jack can stop himself, he snaps, "And Kirill is your flunky?"

"No," Pamela says crisply. "Kirill is an asset, who just happened to save _your_ life."

Jack raises a brow. "Who kidnapped me _and_ murdered my fiancé."

"Who killed your would-be assassin before she could finish the job," Pamela corrects him in a stern voice with an equally stern expression. "And kept you safe until we could get you out of the country."

Jack snorts dismissively. "You call locking me in a dark room with only a mattress keeping me safe?" he laughs bitterly before rolling his eyes. "I nearly died."

"But you didn't." It is Kirill who responds this time, his hazel gaze fixed on Jack.

Jack glares at him. "I almost did."

"You should not dwell on what may have happened," Kirill tells him so plainly. "It is not good for your health."

Jack's jaw drops as he gawks at the Russian. "Is this guy for real?" he balks, turning his attention to Pamela and Cronin.

Kirill turns to Pamela, raising a brow in confusion and muttering something in Russian, to which Pamela replies back. They go back and forth in Russian for several minutes, Kirill keep his voice even and deadly and occasionally gesturing at Jack.

"Enough," Pamela snaps in English, shooting Kirill a scowl that seems to pacify the Russian. She sighs and turns back to Jack. "I apologize for the manner in which we removed you from your…_perilous_ situation. We had limited amount of time to get to you without Harper's knowledge and before Miss Zhigunova could carry out her orders."

Jack levels his gaze at the Deputy Director. "I saw her get shot," he tells Pamela. "She may have been FSB and she may have lied about who she was, but I loved her."

"Understood," Pamela replies in a gentle tone, though Jack is sure that couldn't even melt ice in her mouth if she tried. "I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Ryan."

The thing is, he _would_ have believed her because the apology sounded so genuine. Jack would have believed a lot of things, but now…nothing makes sense. He averts his eyes at the first sting of tears, squeezing them shut and gulping down the sob that threatens to escape.

"This file," Pamela says, catching Jack's attention as she holds up a black folder in her hand, "has all the information you need. I am going to leave this here." She walks along the side of the bed, her body casting a shadow over the linens as Pamela goes to the bedside table, where she leaves the file. "When you are ready…"

Jack nods as he stares at the file.

"Okay then," she says as an uncomfortable silence fills the room. She goes back to Cronin and the Kirill, the scent of her perfume lingering in her wake and painfully reminding Jack of Cathy.

Or Katarina.

Whatever her name was.

Jack watches as Pamela and Cronin exchange a knowing look before the latter turns to Kirill, whispering in his ear.

Whatever Cronin tells the Russian, he seems to agree with a hesitant nod of his head as his hazel eyes look in Jack's direction.

What this man is thinking, Jack cannot even begin to fathom, nor does he really care. He observes Cronin and Kirill depart the room, with Pamela remaining behind to gather her things from the chair.

When she is finished, she stands at the foot of the bed, holding a leather briefcase in one hand and her jacket in the other. "There is a bathroom through this door," she says, gesturing towards a door behind her. "Everything you'll need is already there and there is clothing in the dresser."

Jack glances as the dresser, wooden and decorated with intricate cravings. "Do I want to know how you know my size?" he comments.

"Probably not," Pamela replies. "There is a call button next to the bed if you need any food or something to read."

Jack nods, absently. "What, no television?"

"Until I know that you will not try to contact Harper or anyone who may end up putting your life in danger, you will not have access to any technology," she states to him. "Mr. Ryan, I wish I could say that I understand."

Jack turns to her, his blue eyes blazing. "But you don't."

"You are correct," she replies evenly. She cocks her head, making a study of Jack before she sighs. "A lot of people put their lives on the line to ensure that you lived."

Jack scowls. "So now you're trying to make me feel guilty?" he hisses. "You _ruined_ my life!"

"No, William Harper ruined your life," Pamela retorts. "I _saved_ your life."

Jack balls his fists against the bed linens and presses his lips together into a thin line, trying to hold back the explosion of hateful words he has on the tip of his tongue.

"Get some rest, Mr. Ryan," she tells him before spinning on the heel of her designer shoes and walking towards the door.

As she goes to turn the knob, Jack says, "This is a covert operation, isn't it?"

"What makes you think that?" Pamela asks him, sounding slightly annoyed.

Jack arches a brow and she sighs.

"You are right," she says. "We are operating outside the perimeters of the CIA to ensure this success of this mission. Your current status is listed as missing in action until _you_ determine how you want to proceed."

"I get a choice?"

Pamela shrugs. "You can help us take down Harper and in return, you get your life back," she explains before pausing. "Or…we give you a new identity and you disappear. John Patrick Ryan will cease to exist."

"Oh," he whispers.

"It is your choice," Pamela reiterates.

Jack just nods because there is nothing else left to say.

So he thinks.

As Pamela goes to open the door again, he lifts his head. "Wait," Jack says.

Pamela looks at him, arching her brow.

"Am I allowed to know what this operation is?" he asks.

Pamela flashes him a secretive smile that reminds him of the Mona Lisa. "Operation Outcome," she replies before she opens the door and leaves.

* * *

In some sick, twisted way Jack gets the staycation he asked for.

He has a quiet room where he can read and avoid the folder on the bedside table.

No one comes to bother him and force him out of the comfortable bed that he sleeps in as the minutes, days, and hours tick by.

He's allowed to be mentally, physically and emotionally drained. Some would classify this as some sort of breakdown, but Jack likes to think of it as giving zero fucks about anything and everything.

His body is still healing from the car accident in Moscow and the fever that ravaged his body, leaving his skin with a sickly pallor. When he first sees himself in the bathroom mirror, Jack hardly recognizes the battered man that stares back at him with vacant blue eyes. Bruises are turning yellow and brown and scabs are littering his skin like constellations.

It is then Jack realizes how weak and exhausted he is. He brushes his teeth, ridding his mouth of the bitter taste on his tongue, and practically crawls into the shower, turning the facet to as hot as his body can handle.

As Jack sinks to the tile floor of the shower stall, he buries his face in his hands and allows the water to pelt him until it runs cold.

Somehow, he musters the energy to stumble back to that great big bed and climb under the linens, promising himself that he'll find something to wear when he wakes up.

He stirs nearly thirty-six hours later to rain hammering against the picture window and Kirill standing in front of him holding a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

"Put these on," he clucks in broken English. "Then you sleep."

Jack complies because he is too tired to argue and he's fairly certain that in his current condition this guy could snap him in half.

With clumsy fingers, he dresses himself under Kirill's watchful eyes and flops back down on the bed, closing his eyes as soon as his head hits the pillows.

As the last of Jack's consciousness ebbs and flows, he thinks that the Russian pulls the blankets up and over his body.

* * *

He starts to dream again now that the fever is gone, and it goes something like this: he is laying on the bed with Cathy straddling him, her soft skin brushing against his own as her lips brush against his ear lobe. Jack can feel her mouthing his jaw, that spot on his neck that makes his knees weak, and the light press of her teeth against his collarbone.

Her lips are traveling down, down, down…to his sternum where Cathy lingers, flicking his skin with her tongue, and planting kisses along his ribs, stomach, and the protrusion of his navel.

Her tongue teases the trail of hair that leads towards his full and heavy cock that rests between his legs. Jack bites his lip and arches his back. "Cathy," he chokes out as her lips tease the crest of his hips.

"Katarina," she corrects in a soft voice, taking him into her hand and giving his cock a tantalizing tug.

Jack moans. "Shit," he pants. "Don't stop…"

She doesn't stop. Cathy takes him into her mouth, engulfing Jack in wet, hot heat that makes him let loose a groan as he fists the sheets of the bed.

Jack opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling as Cathy works him with her lips, throat, and tongue. "I had the weirdest dream," he says in a strained voice as her tongue flicks the sensitive area underneath his cockhead. "I had a dream that you died…"

"It sounds like a nightmare," Cathy says as she pops her head up, looking at him from between his thighs. She is flushed and her brown eyes are sparkling. She is stroking his length, keeping him on the cusp of a quick climax and prolonged pleasure. "What else happened?"

She has him in her mouth again. A whine from deep in his throat escapes his lips as Jack presses his head into the pillow and tightens his grasp on the sheets. "Fuck Cathy," he moans. "Just like that…"

"Katarina," she corrects again, though Jack isn't sure if he hears her correctly.

He is lost in the sensations from the mouth on his dick: the sucking, the teasing, the light brush of teeth and tongue, the stroke of a hand cupping his balls.

"I woke up…" Jack pants. "…in a room and a man was there." His grunts as her hand tugs on his sack, just enough to make his dick twitch in her mouth without hurting. "I couldn't…couldn't see his face…not for the longest time."

"But you did," says another voice, a man's voice, from a dark corner.

Kirill, all pale skin and dark features, comes out of the shadows like an apparition. He wears the same solemn expression on his face and it appears more sinister in the dim light. "You saw me," he tells Jack as he approaches the bed.

"Yes," Jack murmurs, his eyes locked with Kirill's hazel eyes. "I saw you."

Cathy peers up at them, her lips wrapped around Jack's cock and seems to smile. She swallows him down, further than he remembers, as Kirill sits on the bed.

Jack tries to concentrate on the woman between his legs as Kirill leans over him, the Russian's dark clothing against his naked skin. "Cathy…" he moans.

"Her name is Katarina," Kirill whispers into the shell of his ear, sending a shiver down Jack's spine. "You like that, Jack Ryan?"

That being the sensation of Cathy's hand meeting her mouth as she brings Jack closer to the brink. "God yes…" he groans.

"You like when she takes you deep?" Kirill asks, his tongue flicking against Jack's ear. "When she uses her tongue?"

Jack whines in agreement, squeezing his eyes shut. "And when she uses her hand…"

"Like that?" Kirill murmurs as Cathy squeezes his cock harder at the base, massaging his length as pleasure coils and tightens in his stomach. "What about when she touches you there…" he inquires as the Russian traces a hand down Jack's sweat slick chest and takes one of his nipples between in fingers, squeezing. Jack lets out a shout. "Oh yes…like that."

Jack opens his eyes to find that Kirill's mouth is dangerously close to his own. "Why are you here?" he manages to ask.

"You want me here," Kirill replies cryptically, flicking the tip of his tongue against Jack's lower lip. "You want me here…always."

His words are predatory and only build upon Jack's impending climax that edges closer and closer. Jack stares into those two hazel voids as Kirill closes the gap between them, pressing his chapped lips against Jack's.

As their lips touch and Cathy's tongue flicks, Jack comes, screaming wordlessly into the Russian's mouth.

Of course he wakes up in a cold sweat that makes his clothing stick uncomfortably to his skin and an aching erection between his legs.

And the tingling sensation of rough lips pressed against his own, like a phantom that creeps back into the darkness.


	2. Loneliness

**Loneliness**

Eventually Jack rejoins the world.

He starts his assimilation off slowly: cleaning himself up with a hot shower and a much needed shave, a full meal, and some reading.

Books, as promised, are brought to his room by members of Pamela Landy's team. They never look Jack in the eye as when they enter his room (which he found out locks…_from the outside_) or speak in anything more than monosyllables.

They just enter the room with a 'hello sir' and leave in silence, ignoring all of Jack's efforts to communicate.

Jack wonders if they know who he is and why he's there. Something tells him that they probably don't. Pamela Landy seems like the type of person to keep vital information closely guarded and unfortunately for him, Jack is just that.

He feels like a prince locked in a tower – a tower in the middle of central Minsk with a picture window and everything he needs – who awaits his release or figures out how to escape.

While clever, not even Jack is that clever.

* * *

When he looks in the bathroom mirror, he is starting to recognize the man staring back even if this man has a perpetually haunted look in his eyes.

He is toweling off the water from his face, having finished shaving, and patted the soft fabric against his skin.

Jack remembers mornings such as this one back home with Cathy. Each of them would be getting ready for their respective jobs: Cathy blow drying her hair and Jack shaving with an electric razor. Their eyes would meet in the reflection of the mirror, both of them still sleepy and smiling. Cathy would turn off the blow dryer, setting it down on the counter, and go to him, wrapping her slender arms around his waist. They would stand there for a moment, reveling in the quiet of morning, before breaking apart to go back to their activities.

He drops the towel on the counter and leans against the cool surface, his eyes burning and his heart aching. Jack presses his lips together, trying to control their quivering, and traps a whimper in his closed mouth.

It was real, those silly little things that he and Cathy used to do. It was all real and they happened, once upon a time, not that long ago.

"Jack?" asks a voice – Kirill's voice – from the doorway.

He looks up, startled, and sees the Russian's reflection in the mirror. Kirill is standing just outside the threshold of the bathroom, wearing his customary dark clothing and unreadable expression.

There is a flash of memory – dark and seductive – as Kirill leans over him, his clothed body pressing against Jack's naked skin and those lips dangerously close to his own.

"I bring you something besides book," he tells Jack in a gruff voice. "Come when you are ready and I show you."

Jack watches Kirill disappear as he walks away, the soles of his shoes making the floors creak under his movements. There is the sound of a lid being opened and undetermined activity from the main room as Kirill mutters to himself in Russian.

Jack can pick up a few words as he stands in the bathroom and listens. He can't lie and say his curiosity isn't piqued because it is, but the Russian makes him feel uneasy.

Anyone in their right mind would feel uneasy to be in such close proximity to the man who kidnapped them.

Or saved their life.

Or haunts their dreams with those hazel eyes and that predacious stare.

Curiosity wins as Jack slips into the clean flannel pajama bottoms and t-shirt he brought into the bathroom. He pads into the main room, the carpet cushioning the sound of his feet.

A normal person would not have heard him and would have been surprised to see Jack in the room if they weren't looking at him.

Kirill's back is to him, obstructing Jack's view from the Russian's ministrations. "How was your shower?" he asks without looking, making Jack stop mid-step.

Apparently Kirill is not a normal person.

Jack does not reply. Instead, he stands where he is and watches Kirill as he goes about his business. He's taken off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, revealing more dark clothing.

As the Russian moves, Jack observes his muscles ripple under the material of his shirt or the way that his fingers reach up and scratch the back of his neck. When Kirill turns his head, showing off his profile, Jack sees a scar that spans from his temple to behind his ear, stark white against his almost black hair.

"I had car accident like you," Kirill tells him without looking at Jack. "I was chasing someone and car crashed. The doctors in hospital told me that I was lucky. I ask them what does luck have to do with it and they had no reply. I think you feel the same."

Jack arches a brow as Kirill glances at him over his shoulder. "Are you saying that I have rotten luck?"

"Bad timing," Kirill corrects as he turns away with a shrug. He raises his hand, holding a white object between his fingers.

It's a rook piece.

"You want to show me chess?" Jack asks, trying to hide the surprise in his voice.

Kirill nods. "It is different than your books. Different is good."

"What if I like my books?" Jack questions.

Kirill shrugs. "Then you like your books," he replies neutrally. "Eventually you get bored and wished you played chess with me."

A Russian with a sense of humor (or the closest thing to it)…only Jack would find himself in this position. He takes a tentative step towards Kirill, watching the man's movements like a hawk.

"I will not hurt you," Kirill states as he pulls out a chair and goes to sit, revealing an expertly set up chess board.

It is old, perhaps something that was handed down to the Russian. The pieces – onyx and white marble – are delicately carved and the board, while worn from use and age, is made of two different types of wood, inlayed precisely and carefully.

Jack realizes that as he's studying the chessboard, Kirill is watching him. Their eyes met – blue against hazel – for the briefest of moments before Jack looks away. "This is old," he says dumbly.

"My father gave to me when I was boy," Kirill clucks as he leans back in the chair, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. "His father gave to him."

Jack nods. "I had a pocket watch that belonged to my father," he tells the Russian.

"Where is it?"

"In my sock drawer back home," Jack replies as his finger traces the edge of the chessboard. "Unless if the CIA took that, too."

He flushes as he realizes what shit has come out of his mouth. Jack meets Kirill's gaze and shakes his head in a silent apology. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean it."

"You did," Kirill comments, his face betraying nothing. After a tense moment of silence, Kirill lets out a sigh and raises one of his dark brows. "Sit."

Jack swallows and is slow to move.

"I don't bite," Kirill remarks.

Jack stares at him and watches as a unhurried smile dances across his lips. Kirill gestures towards the chair across from him and mutters something in Russian as Jack makes himself comfortable.

"Do you know chess?" Kirill asks as he reaches for a black chess piece.

Jack shrugs. "Not well," he admits, earning a peculiar look from the Russian. "I know how to play, but I'm just not good at it."

"_Da_," Kirill replies, seemingly content with this explanation. "Strategy is key. And logic."

Jack just nods.

"You are smart man. That is what Pamela tells me," Kirill explains as he makes a move, sliding a chess piece into another square.

Jack follows suit, earning a raised brow from the man. "She said I was smart?" he muses as he leans back into his seat.

"Do you think she lies?"

Jack shrugs. "I think she is being polite," he answers as he watches Kirill debating his next move. "If I was really all that smart, I wouldn't have ended up in this clusterfuck."

"Bad things happen to good people," Kirill states as he moves another piece, taking one of Jack's pieces down without changing his stoic expression.

"If you say so," Jack sighs, propping his chin up in his palm as his other hand moves one of his pieces.

Kirill watches his move with great interest. "You doubt this," he says to Jack as he moves one of his pieces, taking another one of Jack's down.

"Wouldn't you?" Jack nearly laughs. "Look at me…I'm hidden away in a covert safe house and I couldn't even walk out the door if I wanted to because _it locks from the outside_. The one woman I _actually_ pictured having some semblance of a future with turns out to be a FSB operative and she was going to murder me because I pissed off the wrong people, not to mention the man that I thought was my mentor is probably who ordered the hit in the first place." Jack swallows down his boiling anger and pauses, staring at Kirill. "So yes, I have doubts. I fucked up royally and I'm paying the price while the bad people go on with their lives," he hisses as he brutally knocks over one of the black pieces, sending it to the floor. "Your move."

Kirill doesn't so much as twitch. He contemplates his next move for a moment before sliding the piece over, lifting his eyes to signal Jack to go next.

They play in silence for what it seems like hours to Jack. He watches as Kirill thoroughly destroys him in the most casual of manners and without a hint of gloating.

"You blame yourself," Kirill tells Jack as he furrows his brow. "Do not do this. You are victim of…circumstance."

"Fate?" Jack corrects.

Kirill shrugs as he makes his next move. "Isn't this not the same?" he asks.

"Touché," Jack sighs as he moves his next piece, already knowing that Kirill is going to win.

Kirill taps his fingertips against the table. "You did right thing, Jack," he tells him as he goes to reach for his chess piece. "Do not think otherwise. And…check mate."

Jack blinks and lurches forward as Kirill lays down his King with a hint of a grin. "…the hell?" he stammers, awestruck. "How…"

"Practice," Kirill replies as he leans back. "I have played since I was boy."

Jack considers this while gawking at the Russian. "I figured since chess is a national pastime," he comments.

"National pastime?" Kirill inquires, cocking his head. "I do not understand."

Jack huffs out a long exhale. "It's a part of your culture," Jack tries to explain. "Like baseball is in the States or hockey in Canada."

Kirill scrunches his nose. "Oh," he says. "Chess is not national pastime in Russia. Bandy."

"Bandy?"

"_Da_," Kirill says. "Bandy. I show you sometime, yes?"

Jack nods uncertainly.

"Now," Kirill tells him as he gathers the chess pieces, "I show you why you lose."

And he does.

It all boils down to patience, strategy, and logic.

Jack always thought that he possessed these qualities, but as Kirill leans over him, pointing and explaining the game to him in broken English, Jack realizes that he is wrong.

It's not surprising because Jack has been wrong about a lot of things up until now.

"You are tired," Kirill tells him, rousing Jack out of his own head. "We continue lesson later."

Jack watches as the Russian goes to put the chess board and its pieces away. It is done in a neat and careful fashion, not the brute force that Jack would expect from this strange man. "You said you are FSB," Jack says.

"Was," Kirill corrects without looking at Jack. He picks up a rook. "Was FSB. I am not any longer."

Jack nods. "What happened? What made you leave?"

"I took mission. It ended badly," Kirill replies. His expression darkens in the fading sunlight as rain clouds appear outside. "Landy found me in hospital, offered me deal. I took it because I was tired of doing bad things."

"You mean things that the FSB ordered you to do?"

Kirill shrugs. "It does not make difference who ordered me," he explains with a heavy sigh. "In the end, they are bad." He glances at Jack for a moment before going back to his previous activity of packing up.

"Did you know that you were being recruited for the FSB?" Jack asks, earning a strange look from Kirill. "When they approached you, did you know?"

Kirill thinks about this for a moment, never taking his eyes off Jack. "_Da_," he replies as he closes the lid to the wooden box. "I knew."

"Of course," Jack sighs, his cheeks flushing in anger. "Everyone knew _except_ me."

Kirill cradles the box, pressing it against his side. "You cannot blame yourself," he says like the fucking Dali Lama with a Russian accent. "It will…how does saying go…eat you?"

"Eat you up?" Jack offers.

Kirill nods. "_Da_," he replies. "Blame and anger will eat you up. This is no good. It does not help."

"Then what helps?" Jack half asks, half pleads and does not expect the Russian to answer him.

But he does and it somehow makes sense.

"Vengeance," Kirill tells him as he pats Jack's shoulder and gives him an affirmative nod. He motions to the black folder that rests on the bedside table. "Read file and decide."

Jack stares at the folder that has been taunting him for the majority of the time he's been in the safe house and only realizes that Kirill has left when the door clicks shut.

* * *

He listens to the Russian and reads the contents of the folder.

He gets up to the car accident that killed his parents and has to vomit. Jack rushes to the bathroom and barely makes it to the sink, where he coughs up bile and saliva.

Like a damn masochist, Jack goes back to the folder and forces himself to continue reading. This file – _his file_ – has every single detail of his life written down in fine black print; from the name of the doctors and nurses present at his birth to his last purchase on his MasterCard.

He throws up three times during the course of his reading, leaving his throat raw and burning and his stomach muscles sore by the time he sets the file back down.

The door opens and someone steps inside, shutting it behind them.

Jack closes his eyes, feeling tears of betrayal and anger wetting his lashes. "They knew _everything_ about me," he says to the other occupant of the room. "How is that even possible?"

"William Harper is a man of means and when his interest is piqued, he researches the subject thoroughly," Pamela replies.

Jack shakes his head, swallowing back a pitiful whimper. He opens his eyes, staring at the city of Minsk under a rain filled evening sky.

"You are not the first person this has happened to," she tells him over the sound of her body moving across the room. "Unfortunately this agency has an unsavory history. Some intentions were noble, others were not."

Jack feels the bed bounce as Pamela sits down next to him, keeping a safe distance. "What do you want me to do?" he asks in a quiet voice.

"This is your decision, Mr. Ryan," she reiterates.

His chin trembles as tears wet his cheeks. Jack is overwhelmed by the intense turn of events his life – so perfectly planned out and unassuming – has taken. He was going to work, wed, start a family, and pay his taxes. There was going to be a mortgage, evenings in front of the television, happy hours at his favorite bar, and cookouts during the summer.

It was all so simple, but perfect and peaceful – just the way he had wanted it.

"What happens if I choose to leave?" he finally asks.

"A body, badly decomposed with your DNA will turn up at the appropriate time and you will be declared dead," Pamela starts to explain. "The CIA will proclaim your demise as retribution for your role in taking down Cherevin and you will be buried with full honors as a government agent."

Jack chokes out a sob in disbelief.

"We will provide you with new identification and the means to start over. You will lead a simple life – under the radar – and will not have any personal attachments. This means no friends, significant others, or family," Pamela continues in a level tone. "You will be alone, but you will be safe and alive."

She lets this information soak in as Jack softly cries. Pamela offers him no words of comfortable or any words at all and in some odd way, Jack is grateful. He doesn't need pity – just the truth.

The CIA owes him that at the very least.

"And if I chose to help you?" Jack asks, daring to look at the woman just inches from him. "What will happen?"

Pamela looks at him with intent, her face betraying nothing as she purses her lips together. After a moment, she exhales and pushes herself off the bed, walking towards the window. "You will be trained here in Minsk with Kirill as your handler. When he deems you ready for active duty as an asset of Operation Outcome, we will set up a scenario in which you are returned to our jurisdiction as victim of a kidnapping. A series of ransom demands have already been made while you were indisposed, so Harper will be none the wiser when you return. You will be hailed a tragic hero in the press and once the media storm dies down, the CIA will allow you back to work – desk duty, more likely than not. You and I will have contact without raising any suspicion. You will gather intel and report back to Kirill. When the timing is right, we will make our move. Harper and his associates will be taken care of."

Jack raises his brow. "You mean…you'll kill him," he says.

"No," Pamela replies with a ghost a smile on her lips. "_You'll_ kill him or do what you see fit. I am leaving that up to you."

Jack's jaw drops and he's speechless. "Why are you giving me that choice?" he finally asks, minutes later.

"There are many reasons," Pamela says cryptically, "but in the end it comes down to one thing: you have not had control over your life for longer than you've realized and you deserve to have it back."

"Is this the part you say that it's my basic human right?" Jack wisecracks in a rough voice.

Pamela crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him until Jack looks back. "I'm not a motivational speaker, Mr. Ryan," she tells him. "I am here to right a grievous wrong while ensuring the safety of my country."

Jack swallows back a sharp retort. "So when do we start?"

* * *

They start the following day.

Kirill comes to his room and escorts Jack down a flight of stairs, to a room that's set up for drills. Jack stands in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of him, as Kirill walks to the opposite side of the room and removes his sweatshirt.

"Ability to defend yourself is important," Kirill says as he reaches for a roll of tape. He begins to tape up his knuckles, like he's been doing it all his life (which Jack thinks that he probably has), and continues speaking, "Control is important. To have control over your movements aids you in your ability to fight. Fighting is not about who punch harder – fighting is to get the upper hand. Through control, defenses, and strategy. Like chess." Kirill sees that Jack hasn't moved from his spot and raises a brow, motioning for him. "Come. We tape up your hands."

Jack hears the Russian's impatient clucking and decides that he'd rather not test the man's patience. He crosses the room, his sneakers squeaking against the wooden floor, and finds himself standing in front of Kirill.

"Hand," Kirill says in a clipped tone. He takes Jack's left hand into his own and begins to tape it up, fidgeting with the pressure and tightness. "This will protect your knuckles."

Jack nods, watching in silence as Kirill continues his ministrations. The Russian's hands are rough against his own from Kirill's years as an active FSB agent. "How long were you with the FSB?"

"Long enough," Kirill replies, dropping Jack's bandaged hand and grabbing the other one, jerking him forward. "I do not like to talk about it. Bad memory."

Jack winces as Kirill grips his hand too tightly. "Sorry," he says.

"You did not know," Kirill tells him, holding Jack's hand to study his work. He nods, pleased. "But now you do."

They exchange a look before Kirill drops Jack's hand and tosses the tape with a single movement. "You may think you know how to fight," Kirill says over his shoulder as he walks to the center of the room, where a mat lies. "It may have served you well, but this is different now. Your life depends on it."

"And it didn't before?" Jack comments as he flexes his hands.

Kirill shrugs. "Not as much," he replies.

Jack looks up at him and sees the barest ghost of a smile on the Russian's lips. It makes his stomach knot with nerves, especially when Kirill gestures for Jack to come onto the mat.

"You look like lamb going to slaughter," Kirill remarks as soon as Jack steps onto the mat.

Jack raises a brow. "You would too if you were about to go up against a former FSB agent," he retorts with a scowl.

"I go easy," Kirill says, his smile getting broader. "Little lamb."

Jack finds himself on his back before he can even blink. The air rushes out of his lungs and his leg is being twisted in the most uncomfortable position imaginable. "Jesus…fucking…" he groans, trying to twist away. Kirill – the bastard – has him pinned to the mat and defenseless.

"Pay attention," Kirill tells him as he releases Jack's leg and gives him a hand up. "We try again."

And they do.

Over and over again for stretches of time that seem to go on for hours. Kirill is a patient instructor and apparently has no problem with continuously flinging Jack around the room. He adjusts Jack's stances and carefully demonstrates different moves until he deems that Jack has gotten it right.

He also touches Jack without a second thought, his rough hands grasping each limb and modifying their position.

Sometimes Kirill will squint his hazel eyes at Jack, looking at him as if he was a statue in a museum, before nodding his head in approval and saying, "_Da_."

The touches are clinical and impersonal at first. As time goes on, Jack notices that Kirill's hands will linger longer than they should or his mouth will be closer to the shell of Jack's ear than before.

It makes his breath hitch and his blood burn hotly, especially since Kirill doesn't so much as blink when he lets go or apologize when Jack looks at him, startled and wondering.

At night when Jack is exhausted and sore, he falls into a deep sleep where his dreams are haunted by the Russian.

Cathy was there, at first, naked and ready for either of them with a secretive smile on her lips. She addresses Kirill in nonsensical Russian as she slinks over to him, occasionally looking in Jack's direction. Together they work on getting him off, both of their dark eyes on Jack as he lays prone against the mattress and exposed.

It's always Kirill who gets him there: uttering filthy words into Jack's ear, touching his body with those hands, or pressing those lips against his skin.

He always wakes up aching, sweating, and with a shout about to erupt from his lips. His heart hammers against his chest and his blood roars in his ears as Jack strokes himself to an uneasy completion under the blankets, hissing as his orgasm hits.

His dreams are no different tonight, except it's just the two of them. Cathy is gone – seemingly vanished like the rest of his perfect life – and Kirill is between his legs, mouthing the sensitive skin of Jack's inner thigh.

He is naked this time, the Russian's skin glowing in the dim light. Kirill is all lean muscle and flawless, save for a few puckered scars that mar various parts of his body.

His lips…his lips are sinful and know exactly what to do to set Jack off (after all, it's his wet dream, so why not).

"Why are you doing this?" Jack gasps as Kirill's lips move closer to the throbbing erection that brushes against the Russian's broad chest.

Kirill presses his lips at the crease of Jack's thigh, nipping the flesh with his teeth. "You like this," he whispers, blowing cool air onto the salvia damped skin. "You want me here."

"But why?" Jack asks just as Kirill's tongue licks up the center of his ball sack, igniting a whine from his mouth. He fists the man's short hair and arches his back. "God…don't stop."

In his dreams, Kirill is just as good at taking orders as well as giving them. His tongue drags Jack's sack, mouthing and teasing him as Kirill takes Jack in hand. His hand expertly strokes Jack's length in time with his tongue, earning appreciative groans and shaking limbs.

"You always look at me," Jack breathes, watching Kirill stroke him, "like you're about to hunt me down."

Kirill raises his eyes and smiles. "Little lamb," he whispers into Jack's groin. "I want you to come."

"Anything," Jack moans back as Kirill's hand moves faster, harder. "Anything you want."

Kirill moves above him, kissing his way up Jack's body, speaking as he does so. "Anything? I want you to come saying my name. I see how you look at me. I see the desire in your eyes." Kirill brushes his lips against Jack's collarbone, suckling on the heated flesh.

"I'm close," Jack begs, arching his body against Kirill's. "I'm close…" He shudders as Kirill's thumb rubs against his sensitive head. "Shit…"

That voracious hazel stare is trained on him and he swears in his haze that Kirill is licking his lips hungrily. "Say it," he orders.

As Jack opens his mouth to cry out, he is jerked awake by two hands latched to his shoulders that are shaking him furiously. His eyes fly open and in the lights from the street lamps outside, he sees Kirill hovering over him, his face etched in concern.

"You awake," Kirill says as he stares down at Jack, his features half hidden by shadows. "I heard yelling. I came to check and you were struggling."

Jack is gasping for air and speechless as his traitorous cock remains hard and aching. "I'm fine," he rasps, still pinned down by Kirill's hands.

"Are you sure?" Kirill asks, tilting his head inquisitively as he leans down, studying Jack closely.

Jack gulps and shifts his head up to stare Kirill down. "You're here," he whispers into the darkness.

"_Da_," Kirill replies. "I am." He shifts his body, lowering himself onto Jack's lap, where the latter has no doubts that the Russian as feel his harden length through the bed linens. Jack jerks up, surprised by the contact, and grabs Kirill's wrists, pulling him forward.

In a span of moments, their breath commingles in the near-crackling air of the bedroom as both men stare at each other.

Jack makes the first move, rising up to bring his lips to Kirill's. They are rough just like in his dreams, rough and plush. There is a brush of Kirill's tongue against his, sending a thrill down Jack's spine as the Russian deepens the kiss, exploring his mouth with that tongue.

He pulls back, settling his head against the pillows and gazes at Kirill in awe. "This is actually happening, right?" Jack whispers, drinking in the confused expression on the man's face. "We're doing this. You're here and we're doing this."

"_Da_…why?" Kirill asks as he leans down, mouthing Jack's neck. "Do you think you are dreaming?"

Jack arches his back as Kirill's teeth gnashes a love bite into his skin. "No," he moans, digging his blunt fingernails into the Russian's arms. "Definitely not."

He hears Kirill chuckle as his neck as his hands find their way under Jack's shirt, pulling and pawing at the hem while devouring Jack with a hungry kiss. Jack pulls away and helps with the removal of the offending article of clothing, before grabbing for Kirill and dragging him down, crushing their lips together.

Kirill groans into Jack's mouth, sending vibrations through his already eager body as their tongues dance together, battling for control. As they kiss, Jack pulls at Kirill's wife beater, inching the flimsy black fabric up and over the planes of his stomach, racking his nails against the sensitive skin.

They part so Jack can bring the top over Kirill's head and ignites a fiery need for both men to lose their clothing as quickly as possible.

Kirill throws back the blankets and licks his lips before hitching his fingers in the waistband of Jack's sweatpants, pulling them down to his ankles, exposing Jack's aching, leaking, and erect cock.

Jack groans in desperation as his length is visible to the Russian and the air of the bedroom. He squeezes his eyes closed and grits through his teeth as Kirill takes his sweet damn time looking him over. "Now is not the time to have control or patience," he growls, opening his eyes.

"You are right," Kirill agrees as he strips off his bottoms, his hard cock bouncing as its freed from its confines. He gives himself a stroke, making Jack moan in anticipation of having those hands on his own body. "Now is not the time."

Before Jack can say anything, Kirill slips into the bed alongside him, staring at him with a hunger of a starving man before shifting Jack against his body.

It's skin on skin and better than in Jack's dreams. Kirill nips at his lips as he snakes an well-muscled arm over Jack's waist and brushes a capable hand against the small of his back, pressing him closer to the Russian. He opens his mouth to speak, surprised by Kirill consuming him with lips and tongue.

Jack moans into Kirill's mouth, bucking as the Russian takes both their cocks in hand and begins stroking their lengths against each other. A whine – heady and full of need – explodes from Jack's throat as he clutches onto one broad shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

The chafe, the feeling of their hard cocks rubbing against each other, the slow burn of his impending orgasm…Jack holds onto Kirill for dear life and struggles to breathe as the man debauches his mouth with abandon.

His limbs are trembling, sweating, and aching for release when Jack pulls away, gasping for air. "I'm close," he pants, burying his face into the curve of Kirill's neck. "Fuck…I'm so close."

"Want you to," Kirill growls into Jack's ear in broken words, speeding up the pace of his hand. "Want to hear you."

Jack lets out a cry, throwing his head back as his body tightens. "God…"

"Want to hear you scream," Kirill tells him, his breath hot against Jack's slick skin. "Do it."

Jack doesn't know what he says or doesn't say when he comes, but he hears the sound of his voice – shredded and gasping – as he shudders through the orgasm that wrecks his body.

Kirill is right behind him, grunting against his ear and whispering words in Russian that make Jack moan. There the pulsating wetness of the Russian's semen against his cock and thighs and the easy slip of Kirill's hand as it slows and comes to a halt.

"Next time," Kirill says as he lets go of their softening lengths and rolls onto his back, chest heaving and glistening with perspiration, "we gag you, Little lamb."

For the first in what seems like months, Jack chuckles into the darkness.

* * *

They spend the better part of the day in that four poster bed, forgoing Jack's training for what Kirill called a well-deserved break.

He also uses it as a lesson in patience as Kirill, using lotion he found in the bathroom, opens Jack up one finger at a time.

"You see," Kirill tells him in a calm voice as Jack whimpers and pleads under him, "the art of sex is not about pain. There is pain, yes, but there is pleasure. Then there is both. It takes patience –" He demonstrates by flexing his fingers inside of Jack's passage – "and skill to find balance between two."

Jack's eyes roll into his skull as his bows against the mattress. "You're not trying to have sex with me," he says through gritted teeth, his voice bordering hysteria. "You're trying to kill me."

"Kill you, no," Kirill replies, adding another slick finger inside his tight hole, brushing against Jack's prostate. He smiles down at him as Jack writhes under him. "Fuck you, yes. But in time."

Jack curses, begs, and moans until he is a shuddering mess in the center of bed with three of Kirill's thick fingers inside his ass.

It seems that the Russian knows his body better than Jack does as each and every touch turns his blood into molten lava and brings him closer to the brink of completely losing his mind.

When Jack is well and truly debauched, that's when Kirill takes him with a single thrust that splits him open and makes each nerve sing in a mixture of agony and pleasure.

The Russian plays him masterfully and when Jack comes, he sees stars.

"Are you awake?" Kirill asks from somewhere over his shoulder sometime later as they lay in bed, separated by just an arm's length.

Jack snuffs and nods his head, keeping his eyes closed as he dozes comfortably. The bed moves and dips as Kirill shifts across the mattress, spooning Jack and wrapping a strong arm over his waist.

"Am I first man you fuck?" Kirill asks as he presses his lips against Jack's shoulder blade.

Jack shrugs. "I had a threesome in college with my roommate and his girlfriend…" he starts to explain. "At least I think I did."

"You think?" Kirill teases.

Jack snorts. "The details are hazy, okay?" he snaps as he moves his head against the pillow. "It was the big game and we got wasted. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"If you fuck man, you would know," Kirill deduces.

Jack raises a brow and turns his head, looking at the Russian for a moment. "I'm pretty sure _something_ happened because I woke up without my pants on," he tells him, haughtily. He watches Kirill chuckle into his shoulder. "I didn't hear you complaining."

Kirill shakes his head. "No, no," he clucks. "No complaints."

"I take it I'm not the first man you've slept with," Jack says.

A dark look crosses over Kirill's symmetrically features. Jack swears that his eyes – that hazel green that makes his heart beat faster – turns impossibly murky. "I had lover once," he says. "But that was long time ago. He's gone now. I do not know where."

"You broke up?"

"In a way – yes. He was asset too, stationed in Paris. We met by accident, assigned to same target. We were together for two years before he had mission that ended badly," Kirill replies. He stares off into the distance for a while before turning back to Jack. "He had brain injury. He does not remember me."

Jack swallows roughly and utters, "Shit."

"Last time I saw him was in a tunnel and he had gun pointed at my skull. He did not shoot and left," the Russian whispers as he traces a pattern into Jack's arm. "That was long ago. Enough about him."

Jack takes the hint as Kirill reaches for him, his eyes dark with promise.

* * *

They fuck like they fight, or maybe it's the other way around.

It's brutal, forceful, manipulative, and leaves both men exhausted and boneless.

Three months into his training (and two and a half months into his…_association_ with the Russian), Pamela comes back to the Minsk to survey Jack's progress.

She has a look of genuine surprise when Jack comes down the stairs of the safe house. "You look…better," she says carefully, turning to Kirill and exchanging a look with the other man, before glancing at Jack once more. "Healthier."

Kirill shrugs. "Training agrees with him," he replies.

"I would have to agree," Pamela muses as she walks into the training room.

It's too risky for Jack to take an active mission while still being considered missing, so they spar for Pamela in the safety of enclosed walls. When he's flipped Kirill over his shoulder and slammed the Russian onto the mat, Pamela rises from her seat on the bench (oddly enough where Jack gave Kirill a torturous blowjob the night before).

Jack backs away and helps Kirill to his feet when he's ready, then allows the man to walk off the aches and pains in his body.

"So?" Pamela asks as Kirill crosses back.

Kirill nods, wiping a hand over his sweating forehead. "He's ready."

"Okay," Pamela replies as she studies both men. "Here is how this is going to go down: we sent a final ransom notice to Harper and he has responded, agreeing to the terms – six point four Ruble or two million US dollars – in exchange for Mr. Ryan's safe return."

Jack gasps at the amount. "That's a lot of money," he breathes.

"It is," Pamela agrees. "The drop off is scheduled for tomorrow evening in Gorky Park in Moscow and as that is happening, you will turn up outside the US Embassy located in Minsk."

Kirill scowls as he looks between Jack and Pamela. "You want him to look part?"

"Yes," she says, sounding uncomfortable. "Will this be a problem for you both?"

Jack feels his stomach clench in realization that Pamela Landy knows, especially when she tilts her head and raises one of her perfectly arched brows.

"Give me some credit, Mr. Ryan," she says flippantly before turning to Kirill, giving him a look to which he shakes his head.

Kirill swallows. "No," he tells her. "It will be no problem."

Because beating the shit out of your lover for the sake of your country is completely normal.

When they go to Jack's room later than evening, it's the first time that sex between him and Kirill is slow and gentle. Jack doesn't _want_ to use the term making love, but it's the closest thing to describe the way they writhe against each other, drawing out their pleasure, murmuring endearments, and kissing each other until neither can breathe or break away.

The following afternoon, in a dank basement and wearing the clothing he arrived in, Kirill beats the ever living fuck out of Jack, who just takes it.

The Russian's fists break skin and bone, ignite screams and howls, and leaves Jack in a heap, barely able to move. As blood drips into his eyes, Jack sees the look of complete and utter panic on Kirill's face before Landy's team carries him to an awaiting van.

Kirill comes with them, sitting behind Jack's battered body and whispering Russian into his ear, keeping Jack from completely drifting off.

"We're a block away," says one of the agents from the front of the van.

Jack hears Kirill's voice responding back and the touch of his hand against his broken arm. He whimpers and presses himself against the Russian, looking for comfort.

"Jack…Little lamb," Kirill whispers as gentle hands turn his face so that he's looking at the man. "No matter what happens, remember I love you."

He doesn't respond verbally, but with a weak smile that he knows in his heart of hearts that Kirill can see it.

Seconds later, he is dumped in the driveway of the embassy, the cold air assaulting his body as guards run towards him, screaming for someone to call for an ambulance.


	3. Vengeance - Part I

**Vengeance – Part I**

Cognizance comes in fragments - splintered and hazy.

The sound of voices, medical equipment, and liquid dripping fade in and out of a comfortable darkness that recedes like waves against a shoreline.

There is a bed, drugs pumped into his system, doctors and nurses…and _him_.

"Jack," says William Harper as he opens his swollen eyes for the first time.

His head feels detached from the rest of his body, courtesy of top shelf narcotics, as Jack's eyes struggle to stay open. He swallows and licks his lips, his tongue brushing against a healing cut on his puffy lower lip.

A hand is on his shoulder, pressing gently and allowing body heat soak through the material of Jack's hospital gown. "Are you here?" Harper asks, half serious, half joking as he peers down at Jack, exhausted and concerned.

It is a small mercy that Jack doesn't stay awake for long. He stares at this man, his mentor, in total silence and wonders how genuine his concern and relief truly is.

Perhaps at one time, Harper meant every word of encouragement and advice.

That was before his gamble on Jack didn't pay off and his protégé was more capable than Harper had bargained for.

For his part, Jack doesn't utter a single word, afraid of what he will say, and lets his body sink back into darkness that awaits him.

Jack remains on the fringes of consciousness for a few more days, flickering in and out without warning until one cloudy day, he wakes up and is able to keep his eyes open.

Well as much as he can, given how swollen they are.

Harper is there, looking genuinely worried as he launches out of the plastic chair he's sitting in and goes to Jack's bedside. He is quiet for a moment, trying to decide if Jack is going to stay with him this time before a look of complete and utter relief washes over his face. "Hey kid," Harper says. "Welcome back."

"Hi," Jack croaks, his voice hoarse from disuse. He realizes that his arm is in a sling and covered with a plaster of Paris cast that goes up to just above his elbow. "Where am I?"

Harper gets an uncomfortable look on his face. "Royal London Hospital," he replies.

"London?" Jack asks, surprised. "How did I…I don't remember…"

Harper places a hand against Jack's shoulder. "We airlifted you once you stabilized," he tells him. "You're safe."

_I'm not safe_, Jack thinks to himself as he fidgets against the reclined mattress. "What happened?" he rasps.

"We can talk about that later," Harper says quickly. "Just rest now."

Jack shakes his head. "No," he argues. "We can talk about it _now_, Bill."

Harper flares his nostrils as he crosses his arms over his chest, studying Jack. "You were kidnapped," he tells him. "The car taking you and…" Harper swallows roughly, giving Jack a meaningful look. "…you were taken on your way to the airport."

"They told me that Cathy was dead," Jack whispers, unable to fake an ounce of sadness.

Luckily Harper seems to chalk it up to being traumatized rather than pure hatred. "I'm sorry, kid," he apologizes, his voice filled with regret.

Jack closes his eyes and feels his stomach roil. "So that's one thing they didn't lie about," Jack comments as he opens his eyes.

"What else did they tell you?" Harper asks, his expression changing to a frown.

Jack picks at the blanket with his uninjured hand. "That no one was looking for me…that they were going to kill me and send my body back to the CIA in pieces."

"Jesus," Harper breathes, paling. He shakes his head. "Jack, we looked for you - we followed every lead, every single lead even if it resulted in a dead end - for nearly _five months_. We never stopped looking for you."

Jack shrugs, refusing to look Harper in the eye.

"They sent us videos, demanding a ransom and raising the price each time we agreed to their terms," Harper continues as he sits on the edge of the hospital bed. He lets out a heavy sigh when Jack doesn't look at him.

"Jack, I would have gone to the ends of the Earth to find you. You know that don't you?"

Jack feels the sting of unwanted tears in his eyes. "I don't know anymore," he whispers in a half truth.

A tense moment passed between them, ending with Harper patting Jack's blanket covered knee as he sighs again.

"I let you down, kid," Harper states. "I said that you would be protected and look what happened. A big ol' right fucking mess."

Jack shakes his head. "You didn't know," he replies.

"I've done this long enough that I should have seen this coming," Harper tells him in a stern voice, chastising himself more than Jack. "You didn't deserve this, Jack. And neither did Cathy."

As Jack is about to respond, a nurse comes into the hospital room. She looks surprised to see Jack awake and politely inclines her head as she approaches the bed. In a soft voice, she asks Jack a series of questions about how he's feeling and if he's any pain.

He tells her that he's tired and hungry (his stomach gurgles as if on cue) and that he feels sore.

"I'll see about getting you a light meal," the nurse replies as she adjusts Jack's medication. "I'll be right back."

Her sneakers squeak on the linoleum floors as she departs, leaving Jack alone with Harper once more.

"I want you to talk to someone when you get home," Harper states. "Aside from it being procedure, it would do you some good instead of compartmentalizing what happened."

Jack nods, mutely. "Okay," he agrees in a quiet voice as he aches for Kirill, the one person who he can talk to and know that he's telling Jack the truth.

"Good," Harper replies as the nurse comes back with a doctor in tow and carrying a hospital tray of food.

Jack eats with his left hand as the doctor confers with his nurse about their patient's progress. Harper makes his exit, promising to come back in the morning.

Once everyone has left his hospital room and a guard is posted outside of his doorway, Jack drifts into an uneasy slumber.

At least he's gotten through day one.

* * *

Eventually the swelling goes down, his bruises fade, bones mend and Jack is given the all clear to return to the United States.

Under concealment of a cold London evening, he boards a private jet with a dozen or so CIA agents that he recognizes from the safe house. They acknowledge Jack with a nod of their head, an indication that Landy is behind their placement and that he will arrive back home in one piece.

He occupies a window seat and keeps to himself as the team escorting him home does their final checks before departing. Jack stares out the window, watching the sun fade over the horizon and darken the sky around him. It's strange to be going home after all these months.

Originally it had been a welcomed relief, but now it just feels empty and not very much like home at all.

"Jack?" asks Harper as he stands at the end of the aisle, holding his briefcase and jacket. He flashes a fatherly smile when Jack glances at him. "Do you need anything? Water? Vodka rocks? A piece of toast?"

Jack gives him a brief lopsided grin before shaking his head. "I'm fine," he replies before turning back to the window.

"Okay," he hears Harper say, sounding slightly routed. "You must be happy to be able to sleep in your own bed soon."

"I don't want to go home," Jack says suddenly. He picks at the armrest with his good hand and shakes his head without so much as glancing at Harper. "I don't want to go back to our apartment…I can't."

"I'll see about getting you a hotel room," Harper tells him. "I can have someone go get your things while we're in the air."

Jack turns to Harper, his blue eyes blazing with emotions that aren't faked. "I don't want to go back…_ever again_."

The air is still while Harper processes what Jack is saying before he sighs. "Okay kid," he says as he fastens his seat belt. "I'll make the arrangements."

The rest of the nearly seven hour flight from London to Washington, DC is spent in relative silence. Jack can hear Harper using the jet's phone to arrange for someone to bring a suit case of the former's clothing delivered to the Westin in Arlington or coordinating the removal of his and Cathy's furniture and putting it in storage.

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, Jack dozes off with his forehead pressed against the window and wakes up just as the plane touches down on American soil.

His homecoming is quiet and under a cloud of secrecy as he is rushed from the jet to an unmarked car that drives Jack to his hotel.

After a hasty check-in and a team of CIA agents checking the room, Jack is finally left to his own devices. It feels overwhelming to be free to do whatever he wants and have no one around, monitoring his every move.

It feels so foreign and so strange that panic begins to settle into his bones, leaving him gasping for breath. With the sudden urge to sit down, Jack goes to the king size bed and drops down next to the suitcase that was brought over from his apartment.

He sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly, repeating the process until his heart stops hammering against his ribs.

"Pull it together, Ryan," he whispers to himself.

He does pull it together and decides to unpack the suitcase, putting his clothing in the dresser and hanging two of his suits in the closet. As he starts going through the compartment holding his socks and underwear, his fingers brush against a cool object.

Jack raises a brow as he fishes the object out and lets out a startled laugh as he realizes that he's holding a hand painted porcelain figurine shaped into a lamb.

He remembers one of their many nights together, lying naked in that four poster bed after an energetic round of sex that leaves them both loose limbed and exhausted. Jack is on his stomach, relaxing into the touch of Kirill's two fingers that are walking up and down the column of his spine as he mutters the same word over and over again in Russian.

"What are you saying?" Jack asks in a sleepy voice as Kirill presses his full lips to Jack's shoulder blade. "In Russian…what is it?"

Kirill chuckles as he nips at Jack's skin. "_Yagnenok_," he says, huskily, as his breath hits the sweat drying on his lover's back. "Means little lamb."

"Really?" Jack asks, annoyed, as he turns over and stares up at Kirill. "Little lamb? That's what you're going to nickname me?"

Kirill shrugs. "I like it," he states as he leans down to kiss Jack's stomach, igniting a moan from his lips. "It suits."

"Hmm," Jack hums in agreement as Kirill continues teasing him. Kirill's tongue (along with other body parts) is deadly to Jack's common sense and it seems that the Russian is well aware of this. A single touch is enough to make him agree to anything Kirill wants without hesitation. "Whatever you say."

Kirill runs his tongue along the crest of Jack's hip, holding him down when he jerks at the touch. "See," he says, looking up at Jack with a broad smile. "I knew you would agree." Jack blinks away the recollection and looks down at the lamb in his hand, realizing that it was Kirill who packed his bag and brought it to his hotel room.

Two things come to mind: it's a hell of a time to realize that he's in love with the man.

And suddenly vengeance doesn't seem so bleak anymore.

* * *

After finding a furnished apartment in Pentagon City, Jack goes back to work. As Pamela Landy predicted, he is on desk duty and avoids the sympathetic looks as he roams through the halls. A few brave souls come into his office and express their condolences over Cathy, which Jack takes with a tight expression and a quiet 'thank you'.

He 'meets' Pamela Landy and Tom Cronin on his first Thursday back. Jack is playing solitaire on his computer when he happens to glance up and sees them approaching with Harper. He and Pamela are deep in conversation while Cronin is checking his messages on his phone.

"Jack," Harper says when they are close enough. "There is someone who is eager to meet you."

He rises up from his seat, brushing his hands against his thighs to straighten the wrinkles from his pants.

Neither he, Pamela, or Cronin betray anything.

"Jack Ryan, this is Pamela Landy, Deputy Director of the CIA," Harper announces as Pamela holds out her hand and shakes Jack's with a neutral smile. "And this is her assistant, Tom Cronin."

Jack moves to shake Cronin's hand and says a polite hello to both of them as Harper shuts the door to his office.

"I wanted to come down and introduce myself in person, Mr. Ryan," Pamela says as she takes a seat across from him. "As well as express my condolences over your fiancé. I can imagine that this is a difficult time for you."

Jack fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. "Thank you."

"I understand that Bill has recommended that you speak to someone," Pamela states after a minute of complete silence.

Jack glances at Harper, who stands by the door and shrugs. "He did," he replies.

"I would like to recommend someone that the agency has worked with in the past," Pamela says as she removes a business card from the breast pocket of her blazer and slides it across Jack's desk. "She is experienced with handling cases such as yours."

He reaches for the card, sliding it over to him with his index finger. As far as business cards go, it's fairly plain: black sans serif font embossed onto cream colored card stock. There is a name and contact information for one Mary Roberts, a psychotherapist located ten minutes from Jack's apartment. "Cases such as mine?" Jack questions as he looks up.

"Deputy Director Landy means cases in which individuals have had traumatic experiences in the line of duty," Harper pipes in, raising a brow when Pamela glances at him.

Jack gulps and nods in understanding. "Victims of kidnapping," he utters.

The room goes silent as Jack's words hang in the air. Cronin shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he exchanges an uncomfortable glance with Pamela. Harper palms his chin, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Jack," Harper says, "no one is pushing you to do anything that you don't want to do. Myself and Deputy Director Landy feel that speaking to someone - a professional - could help sort out your feelings and allow you to move on."

Jack rests his chin in his palm and chews on the inside of his mouth.

"Just think about it," Harper urges.

He shrugs, not knowing what to do. "I will," he replies quietly.

"We have a one o'clock," Cronin says to Pamela as he rises from his seat.

Pamela nods and follows suit. As she and Cronin go to leave, she turns to Jack and says, "You should make an appointment as soon as possible, even if you're still considering it. Dr. Roberts can get booked up."

Something about the way she says it makes Jack start to wonder what the underlying meaning of her words. After the three of them leave Jack's office (with a promise from Harper to take Jack to lunch tomorrow), he schedules an appointment for the following Wednesday.

* * *

The weekend comes and goes, uneventfully, as does Monday and Tuesday. Jack is going through the motions and pretending to be a grieving man whose life has been turned upside down. While part of this is true, he doesn't grieve for Cathy.

He grieves for the idealistic man he used to be and now feels sorry for.

Wednesday rolls around. He spends the day on edge as the minutes trickle by until it's time for him to leave, taking the Metro back into Pentagon City. As he's leaving the building, Harper is calling his name in the lobby.

Jack waits for him in the sea of people and manages a tight smile when Harper is close enough.

"I saw you ducking out," Harper explains, slightly winded. "Everything okay, kid?"

Jack nods, clutching the leather gloves in his hand. "I have an appointment," he replies, his eyes shifting from side to side as if he's afraid that someone will overhear them.

"Oh," Harper says, realization dawning on his face. "That's good. That's really good, Jack. I won't keep you."

And he doesn't.

With a pat on his shoulder, Harper sends Jack off into the cold and onto a Metro train.

He takes a cab to the address listed on the business card and finds that it's a high rise apartment building, sleek and minimalistic.

His heart pressed into his throat, Jack goes to the front desk and asks for Mary Roberts. The concierge escorts Jack to the elevators and tells him which unit to go to.

He is deposited out onto the penthouse level of the building and in front of a lone door that is slate grey. Jack takes a step forward and knocks on the door before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

He hears footsteps on the other side of the door and the sound of locks being turned before the door opens.

His hair is a bit longer and hides the scar on the side of his head. His face is clean shaven and smooth under the lights of the hallway.

And his eyes…

…are exactly the same.

Jack's jaw drops as he sees the person on the other side of the threshold. "You," he gasps to Kirill who nods and steps aside to let Jack into the apartment.

Shaking, Jack goes into the apartment and as soon as the door is shut and locked, he turns around and throws his arms around the Russian, burying his face into the other man's shoulder. "I was starting to think that I would never see you again," he whispers, pulling on the material of Kirill's shirt.

"_Yagnenok_," Kirill chuckles into Jack's hair before pulling back and cupping Jack's face in his hands. "You thought you could get rid of me so easy?" He raises a brow, teasingly.

Jack shakes his head as he grasps Kirill's forearms. "I got your gift," he says with a smile. "Very apt."

"Thought you might like," Kirill murmurs as he pulls Jack into a kiss, sweet and gentle. When they part, Kirill holds him close enough that their lips are still brushing together when he says, "Little lamb."

Kirill pulls him back into a kiss and slowly works Jack's mouth open with a brush of his tongue and a nip of his teeth. Jack opens his mouth, more than willingly, to allow Kirill entry. They stay that way for a while, each of them relearning their mouths and what makes each other moan.

The passion builds and their hands all over each other Jack and Kirill quickly work on buttons, clasps, and zippers while stumbling through the apartment towards the bedroom.

Jack lets out a moan as Kirill slams him against the wall, one of his hands pulling down the zipper of Jack's pants as he grips Jack's hair, tilting his head. When the Russian sinks his teeth into the sensitive skin of Jack's neck, the younger man lets out a whimper and shudders against him, helpless.

Jack moans into Kirill's dark hair, fisting it as the Russian's mouth sucks on the fresh bite. He doesn't care if there's a bruise come morning or someone sees it over the collar of his shirt, so long as Kirill keeps on manipulating his body with those lips, the Russian can do whatever the hell he wants.

One of Kirill's hands slips into his pants, cupping his underwear clad cock. Jack hisses through his teeth as the Russian squeezes him gently, tantalizingly and rubs him torturously.

Kirill eases off Jack and leads him to the bedroom, kissing him hungrily. Neither of them speak as they fall on the bed or as Jack pulls Kirill on top of him and practically tears his shirt off, groaning as their bare chests touch.

"I missed you," Jack whispers into Kirill's mouth, relishing the press of the Russian's body against his own. "I missed you so much."

Kirill kisses his neck, his shoulder, then sternum. There is a sly grin on his face as he licks his lips before taking one of Jack's nipples into his mouth. Jack arches his back, holding Kirill's head in place and panting as the man licks, bites, and sucks the yielding flesh before repeating the process on the one other.

Jack lets out a strangled moan, grasping Kirill's shoulders as the Russian moves down, removing the rest of their clothing and tossing shoes and socks across the room. Jack cracks open his eyes and sees Kirill leaning over him, his hooded hazel gaze looking back at him.

Jack opens his mouth to say something to find Kirill pressing a finger against his lips and shaking his head. After a moment, Kirill replacing his finger with his lips and eases Jack down onto the bed as they lick and suck each other's mouths thoroughly.

When Kirill starts to open him, one lube slick finger at time, Jack can't stop whimpering if he even tired. He begs, he pleads, he curses, and swears as his hands fist the comforter on the bed and his heels dig into the mattress.

He hears Kirill whispering to him in both Russian and English and running a hand up and down his body as his fingers scissor and stretch him open.

Jack savors the burn, biting his lower lip when a third finger breaches him. "Viktor," he whispers, desperate. "I need you."

Kirill's smile could light up the sun as it burns so brightly in that dimly lit bedroom. He eases his fingers out of Jack's passage and slicks himself up, pressing the blunt tip of his cock against the tight ring of Jack's ass.

When the Russian pushes into him, it leaves Jack breathless. Kirill takes him long and agonizingly slow, making up for their lost time together.

It's only been a month since they've last seen each other, but it seems like another lifetime as their bodies move together, completely shrouded by the sounds of their breathing and their love making.

Jack doesn't last as long as he hoped. His throbbing and leaking cock is caught between their bodies as Kirill thrusts unerringly into his prostate. It's too much and not enough and leaves Jack gasping for air. "Viktor," he moans, his blue eyes gazing up at his lover.

The Russian kisses him just as Jack's orgasm hits, whiting out his vision and rocking him to the core. Kirill speeds up his thrusts and draws out Jack's pleasure until he breaks the kiss and growls into Jack's shoulder, his seed spurting deep inside of the younger man.

As Kirill collapses against his chest, Jack opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling as he catches his breath. He can smell the Russian's sweat, his cologne and deodorant, all of it still as intoxicating as it was a month ago when he had to leave him.

Jack closes his eyes as he wraps his arms around Kirill's waist, his fingers playing along the small of the older man's back. "I love you, too," he whispers into the Russian's hair when he's finally able to speak.

* * *

They are in the kitchen in the bi-level penthouse, both of them naked as the day they were born and sharing a plate of pasta that Kirill made while Jack observed.

"So _Mary_ Roberts," Jack questions as he shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth. He raises a brow as he chews, earning a not so innocent look from Kirill.

"Is real person," Kirill explains as he leans over the counter. "And she had little lamb."

Jack glares at him, not amused by the reference, and swallows. "That's your code name? Mary?" When Kirill nods with that shit eating grin, all Jack can do is chuckle. "Your nickname is going to haunt me for forever," he announces as he spears his fork through more noodles. "I hope you're proud of yourself."

"_Da_, yes," Kirill states as he ruffles Jack's mussed up hair. "Very proud."

They eat in silence for a while before Jack clears his throat and asks, "So there's no therapist?"

"Only if you need one," Kirill replies, casting him a meaningful look. "Do you?"

Jack shakes his head. "I think I'd prefer my therapy attached to the end of a certain Russian's cock," he says casually, pointing his fork towards Kirill's groin. He flashes the Russian a big grin.

"I show you therapy," Kirill practically growls as he grabs the fork out of Jack's hand and pulls him towards the couch.

And he does – a few times.

They fuck on the couch, against the windows that peer out to the DC Metropolitan area, and in the shower. By the time they make it back to the bed, Jack and Kirill are sated and exhausted.

"Should I leave?" Jack asks as they lay entwined under the covers and Kirill runs his fingers through his damp hair.

Kirill shakes his head. "No," he says, pressing his lips to Jack's temple. "Stay. We've been parted too long. I missed you…and I worried."

"Me too," Jack replies, settling his head into Kirill's shoulder.

Kirill nods. "I did not want to leave you…not like that," he tells Jack. "I thought you would be angry."

"No," Jack says, turning to look at the side of Kirill's face. "I could never be angry at you."

Kirill glances at him. "I feel same way," he replies before drawing Jack into a sweet, unhurried kiss. When they part, he whispers, "_Ya lyublyu tebya_."

"Hrm?" Jack hums in question as he rests his head against Kirill's shoulder once more.

"It's Russian for I love you," Kirill clarifies.

Jack smiles against Kirill's collarbone. "I love you, too," he says.

They fall asleep with the light on.


	4. Vengeance - Part II

**Vengeance – Part II**

Jack falls into a pattern and it goes something like this: he goes to work, he interacts with his colleagues and Harper, he goes to the gym to burn off his nervous energy, he heads back to his apartment and cooks himself dinner, he'll check his email or read a book, he'll shower the day off of him, and he'll fall into bed.

Twice a week he goes to _therapy_ and after a month, Harper makes a comment about how much more relaxed Jack has been looking.

"So I guess therapy was a good idea," he says over lunch.

Jack shrugs. "I guess," he replies, watching as Harper nods in agreement.

"You seem more like yourself," Harper tells him as he reaches for his glass of water. "More relaxed."

Jack's lips twitch, smirking.

If only this man knew that the reason why he is so relaxed has absolutely nothing to do with therapy, but being fucked on every surface of an apartment (that the CIA is probably paying for) by an ex-FSB agent twice a week.

Jack surmises that it's better than therapy and more conducive to easing his stress. Besides, the very thought of Kirill pounding into him while Jack just takes it is enough to make him hard as he sits across from Harper.

Of course, that's not all they do.

Kirill is still his handler, regardless of the status of their personal relationship, and Jack has to report any new information to him so it can be filtered to Landy.

Harper has kept Jack on the fringes, seemingly biding his time until he feels Jack is ready to be approached for another assignment.

"So," Harper says, tracing his finger around the rim of his glass. "How would you feel about accompanying me to a few meetings in New York?"

Jack fakes a hopeful expression. "I feel that it would be better than sitting at my desk," he replies in a good natured tone.

If the smile on Harper's smile is any indication, he is pleased with Jack's answer. "Good. We are leaving on Monday morning and returning on Tuesday night. It's a short trip, nothing out of the ordinary," Harper explains. "Just meeting with some associates."

"Anyone I know?" Jack asks.

Harper shakes his head. "No, but they need our expertise to resolve a few matters." He leans back in his seat, eying Jack. "Are you up for it?"

"Sure," he replies.

Harper nods his head, satisfied. "I knew I could count on you, kid."

That night, Jack goes to Kirill's apartment and is surprised to find Pamela Landy sitting on the couch when he's let in.

"I heard you have a business trip coming up," she says as she nurses a glass of red wine and stares out to the night sky.

Jack nods as he removes his jacket. "It's not to meet with associates, is it?" he asks as Kirill places a hand on his shoulder.

"Harper thinks that you are vulnerable and he is going to use it to his advantage," Pamela explains as she stands up, turning towards them. She raises a curious brow and sighs. "He is going to make you the fall guy, saying that you went off the deep end after you were kidnapped."

This doesn't surprise Jack. "He wants to keep his hands clean," he mutters.

"Exactly," she replies. "But we are watching him. Pay attention to everything you see and hear, but play dumb. Don't let Harper or his associates know that you're onto them."

Jack swallows. "I can do that," he tells her as Kirill squeezes his shoulder and walks off towards the bedroom without looking back.

"He's going to get you some equipment," she says, answering Jack's unspoken question as she sets down her wine glass. They exchange a brief glance before Pamela breaks eye contact, looking towards the direction of the bedroom. "Mr. Kirill will be accompanying you to New York. He's leaving the night before and will be staying in the same hotel."

"He's going to be one of the associates," Jack comments.

"Yes," Pamela replies. "I want someone on hand in case things go south. Despite his ex-FSB status, he has a lot of unsavory contacts who own him a few favors."

Jack nods, feeling his nerves tingling in his gut.

"It goes without saying that you two keep your relationship hidden. If you need to avoid each other while you're in New York, then do it," Pamela tells Jack, turning to him. "It's not just your life on the line."

Those words make his blood run cold as Kirill emerges from the bedroom, carrying a box in his hands. He flashes Jack a smile - the sweet one that is only meant for him - and Jack realizes how fiercely he wants to protect this man.

So he goes to New York with Harper with a transmitter embedded into one of his cufflinks.

He shakes their hands, laughs at their jokes, and plays the dumb rookie like it comes naturally. The funny thing is, it used to be the case and reverting back to that man is so easy for Jack that it frightens him.

Kirill - or Sasha Pelevin as he introduces himself with a firm handshake and very little words - keeps their interaction limited and prefers to schmooze with others as he holds a tumbler of vodka in his hand. Like Jack, Kirill laughs at their jokes. He trades barbs with these men, speaking alternatively in Russian and English.

Together they gather intel and separate at the end of the night, going back to their respective hotel rooms where Jack sits on the edge of his bed and yearns for Kirill to barge through the door.

On Wednesday morning back in DC, Harper comes into Jack's office and closes the door with a grin on his face, declaring their trip a success.

"You did well, kid," Harper says as he pulls out two cigars from his jacket pocket and sets them down on Jack's desk. "Enjoy."

He dumps them in the trash outside the Metro on his way to Kirill's apartment.

* * *

He's going to New York a few times a month.

During the course of these trips, Jack learns that these men that Harper is meeting with deal with weapons.

Specifically a drug, those chemicals enhance human strength and stamina, thus creating a human weapon. Names are said in hushed tones - Aaron Cross, Marta Shearing, Jason Bourne - and how they plan on improving the latest batch of chems to ensure that they work this time around.

"What do you mean by work?" Jack asks in a quiet voice as he and Harper walk back to their hotel.

Harper smiles tightly. "There were…difficulties before," he says. "Byer has gotten it sorted it, despite Vosen's royal fuck up. He tried throwing Landy under the bus, thinking he was untouchable."

Jack doesn't reply immediately.

"Remember that _no one_ is untouchable," Harper whispers, "except the ones who know how to play the game."

Jack nods, keeping his expression neutral as he wonders if Harper realizes that he's being played. When the man pats him on the back and chuckles, Jack forces himself to laugh with him.

* * *

Like a good little asset, Jack plays the game.

He observes, he reports back, and he keeps a low profile.

And most of all, he is patient.

"Patience is key," Kirill reminds him as Jack is on his knees and sucking the Russian off against the window in the living room, his bare ass pressed up against the glass.

Jack looks up at his lover, who is watching through hooded eyes as he swallows down Kirill's sizeable length. His tongue flicks the protruding vein on the underside of the Russian's cockhead, igniting a groan that comes from deep within Kirill's chest. He repeats the movement, adding his hand to the mix as Jack strokes the base of Kirill's cock.

As Jack takes him deeper into his mouth, Kirill retells the lessons he talked about back in Minsk. He falters and trails off into a groan as Jack goes faster and whispers in a lust filled voice, "_Yagnenok_."

It sends a thrill down Jack's spine as he reaches for Kirill's sack, cupping it gently in his hand. He tugs lightly and hears Kirill moan as his head leaks precum onto Jack's tongue, salty and musky.

When Kirill comes in his mouth, he swallows it all down like a man dying of thirst in the desert. He likes the way the Russian climaxes – harsh breathing, the sounds of growls, tightening of muscles, the complete abandon on his face – and the look in Kirill's eyes as he glances down at Jack, both satisfied and still hungry for more.

"Your lips are like sin," Kirill tells him as he guides Jack to the couch, pushing him down onto the cushions with a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. "Luckily, I know how to make you atone."

And he does until Jack can barely move from his slack position on the couch. Kirill flops down next to him, looking smug at the disaster he's turned Jack into.

Not that Jack minds.

* * *

Another month passes and Harper notices a hickey peeking over the collar of Jack's button down.

"Who's the lucky gal?" Harper asks, pointing to the colorful bruise against Jack's fair skin. He has a smug grin on his face to match the tone of his voice.

Jack colors as he absently rubs at the hickey. "No one," he replies, uncomfortably.

"No one?" Harper teases. His grin falls when Jack shrugs nonchalantly. "Suit yourself kid."

Jack swears to himself that he's going to tell Kirill that if he's going to leave marks, they sure as hell better be somewhere that's hidden _under_ his shirt.

* * *

Apparently patience is no longer one of Harper's strong suits.

He takes Jack to a laboratory located in New Jersey, just fifty minutes outside of New York City proper, and has a heated exchange with the head doctor. Jack stands by the door, clutching his jacket, as the assistant to the doctor stands nearby her boss, watching.

"I told you," the doctor hisses through a clenched jaw, "the chems aren't ready yet."

Harper cheeks burn with anger. "And I told you I don't care."

"If the formulation isn't precise, it could cause an overdose and kill the user," the doctor says hotly, casting a bothered glance at Jack. "Why is _he_ here?"

Harper looks at Jack, his eyes burning. "He's with me," he snaps, "and isn't a part of this conversation. We had a deal. I have a lot of people who have already paid good money for the supply and will not take no for an answer."

"I can have them ready in four weeks," the doctor tells him.

Harper shakes his head. "Two."

"Three and that's final," the doctor replies, sticking a finger in Harper's face.

Harper grabs the doctor's finger in a flash and breaks it without a second thought, then shoves the doctor onto his desk. He has the doctor's arm bent just so that if he makes a single move, the bones will snap. Over the doctor's howls, Harper says in a calm and collected voice, "Two weeks and not a day more."

"Okay!" the doctor screams. "Okay! All right!"

Harper gives the doctor's arm one last tug before letting him go. "I'm glad we've reached an understanding," he snarls as he straightens the front of his jacket. Without warning, Harper pulls out a gun and fires two bullets into the skull of the assistant.

Her blood splatters against the white walls and Jack's shirt, staining his sleeve red.

His heart is in his throat as he looks down at his clothing, briefly reminded of the three bullet holes that entered Cathy's body and ended her life as he sat next to her.

Jack swallows down the gore that threatens to expel itself on the floor. His blood roars in his ears, drowning out the screams of the doctor and the sound of Harper's approaching footsteps. Jack lets out a pitiful moan as Harper grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the building.

As Jack stands near the car, gagging and spitting up salvia, Harper patiently waits as he twirls the keychain of the rented car on his finger.

With one last cough, Jack is able to stand up ramrod straight despite the dizzy feeling in his head.

"You okay now?" Harper asks as he unlocks the car doors with a click of a button.

Jack wipes his mouth against the blood stained sleeve. He stares down at the crimson fluid on the fabric, horrified and mesmerized.

"Club soda will get that out," Harper says as he gets into the car, impatiently gesturing at Jack to get in as he pulls on his seat belt.

Part of Jack wants to run, even if it means breaking his cover. He doesn't want to spend a second more with this man – this murderer.

Despite his better judgment, Jack gets into the car and buckles himself in the passenger seat. He stares straight ahead as Harper starts the car and says, "Come on, kid, lunch is on me."

Jack doesn't know which is more disturbing: how Harper has no problem murdering an innocent person or how he acts like nothing happened for the rest of the day.

When the plane lands in Baltimore, Jack takes a cab straight to Kirill's apartment. The Russian is surprised to see him when he knocks on the door, as it's not one of their scheduled visits, but lets him in as soon as he sees the startled look on his lover's face.

Jack drops his things by the door and goes straight to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a glass of bourbon and downing it in a single gulp. His eyes burn as the liquid travels to his stomach, but at least it takes some of the edge off.

He can hear Kirill on the phone, urging the person on the other end to get over to the apartment as soon as possible. Jack starts to pour another glass when Kirill's hand on his wrist stops him.

"No more," Kirill says in a gentle tone, easing the glass out of Jack's trembling hand. "Come, sit. Landy is coming."

Jack lets Kirill lead him to the couch without argument, where the Russian pulls Jack into his arms as they settle against the cushions. "He's getting the chems in two weeks," Jack whispers into Kirill's shoulder.

"Two? What happened to one month?"

Jack shakes his head. "He changed his mind," Jack replies. "Harper said that there are a lot of people who have already paid for the drugs. And…he…" Jack swallows, feeling the nausea returning again. "He shot the assistant right in front of me."

That's when he remembers the blood on his sleeve and sees the look of horror on Kirill's face.

"Oh god," he breathes as he scrambles off the couch and rushes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Over the sounds of Jack retching into the toilet bowl, he can hear Kirill's footsteps as he runs into the bathroom and shouts as someone who has entered the apartment. It's a woman's voice – Pamela Landy more likely than not – and she sounds concerned as Kirill comes into the bathroom.

When Jack starts vomiting again, he feels the press of Kirill's body behind his, supporting him and running his fingers through Jack's damp hair.

"Shh," Kirill whispers into his ear. "Shh, _yagnenok_. Little lamb…"

Jack continues to heave up everything in his stomach until there's nothing but stomach acid burning his throat. His eyes are watering uncontrollably and the tears are running down his face as he rests his head against the toilet seat, letting the cool porcelain soothe his burning forehead.

"He's in shock," Pamela says from the doorway, sounding concerned. He can hear her heels against the tile floor as she comes into the bathroom and crouches down next to him.

Jack turns to her and sees the tight expression on her face as she takes in his current state. "He's moving it up," Jack mumbles. "The drop. It's in two weeks. There are buyers…they want the chems sooner than later…" His voice trails off and he swallows, dropping his head back onto the toilet seat. "He killed an assistant…her blood is on my sleeve…he told me to use club soda to get it out and bought me lunch…"

"I'm calling Dr. Roberts," Pamela tells Kirill without taking her eyes off of Jack. "Get him cleaned up and into bed."

Jack shakes his head. "The assistant…Harper…" he stammers.

"I'll take care of it," Pamela says gently. "You're going to stay here with Viktor, okay?"

Jack lets out a moan and closes his eyes. "He shot her…he shot her and I thought of Cathy. I couldn't stop thinking of her…"

He continues to ramble as Kirill undresses him and gets him into the shower, cleaning off the sweat and dried blood from his trembling body. Kirill hushes him as he dries Jack off with a towel and the press of his lips against Jack's clammy skin.

Jack is led to the bedroom where Kirill dresses him in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. "I can't do this," Jack whispers to Kirill after he's pulled the t-shirt over Jack's head. "I can't do this anymore…"

"It's almost done," Kirill tells him as he nuzzles his cheek against Jack's. "When this is over, we go on vacation - just you and I. Somewhere warm and quiet. You can read your books and I can play chess." He continues to whisper in Jack's ear, telling him about Bali, Goa, Madeira and how they'll go on outings together, eat until their bellies ache, and make love in the comfort of their hotel room for hours at a time. "By the time we have to return, you will not want to come back," Kirill says. "And we can stay if you wish."

Pamela comes into the bedroom with another woman trailing behind her. She is around the same age as Landy and has fading red hair styled into a chin length bob.

This woman - the _real_ Dr. Roberts - approaches the bed and examines Jack in a clinical manner before reaching into her briefcase to pull out a prescription bottle.

"What's that?" Kirill asks, eyeing the bottle. "What are you giving him?"

Dr. Robert opens the bottle. "A sedative," she replies as she taps out a single pill. "To help him rest."

"What about Harper?" Jack asks, dazed.

Pamela hands him a glass of water. "Don't worry about him," she says. "I sent an email from your phone saying that you're staying home for a few days."

"He'll suspect something," Jack replies with alarm as he stares at the pill that's been placed in his hand. "He'll know."

Pamela shakes her head. "It will be fine, Jack," she tells him, surprising him by saying his first name rather than her typical Mr. Ryan.

"_Yagnenok_," Kirill murmurs into his ear, his voice soothing against the blood roaring in Jack's head. "Listen to doctor and Landy. They are wise and know what they are doing." He rubs the back of Jack's neck, thumbing the small hairs. "I will be right here."

Jack swallows roughly. "You won't leave?" He knows he sounds like a child, but he doesn't care.

"_Nyet_," Kirill assures him. "I stay."

He takes the pill, swallowing it down dry and chasing the bitter taste away with the glass of water. Jack crawls under the covers and waits for the sedative to kick in as Kirill caresses his back, easing some of the stiffness away.

"Tell me something in Russian," Jack eventually says, drowsily. He can hear Pamela talking on her cell phone in the living room and the tapping of her heels against the hardwood floors.

Kirill runs his fingers through Jack's hair, gently thumbing his temple. "What do you want to hear?"

"Anything," Jack replies as he tries to keep his heavy lids from closing. "Tell me anything."

He feels the bed shift as Kirill leans over him, his hot breath against the shell of Jack's ear. Kirill begins to speak, his voice low and melodious as Russian words emerge from his mouth.

As he falls asleep, Jack realizes that Kirill to telling him about Mary and her little lamb.

Jack is fairly certain it's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him.

* * *

He spends the better part of the next two days pressed between familiar sheets and blankets, napping on and off. Someone tells Harper through Jack's email that he has the flu and is at home resting. He has no idea what Harper's responses are, nor does he bother himself with worrying about it.

"We're watching him," Pamela tells him during a short visit. She sits on the edge of the bed, her coat folded in her lap. "You just rest."

And he does, willing the shock away with sleep. He is reminded of the first weeks of his stay in the Minsk safe house, sleeping day in and day out, and his mind blissfully blank. It was wonderful, healing, and in a strange way a sort of safe haven.

He knew that Kirill kept a constant watch over him then, just as he does know. Jack may have been more guarded in the beginning, but now he knows he can be vulnerable in front of the Russian, whose presence is a constant.

Kirill is always nearby; whether he's puttering around the apartment or sitting up in the bed as he goes over files on his lap top with one hand on the keyboard and the other pressed against the curve of Jack's shoulder, worrying his thumb over the material of his shirt.

"I only feel safe with you," Jack says to him at some point during the first day, not bothering to turn over. "You're the only person who lets me fall apart."

Kirill leans over him, his fingers stroking Jack's arm, and kisses his cheek. "I will always pick up pieces," the Russian grins. "Rest now."

He closes his eyes on command and sleeps for another three hours before his stomach growls and he's able to eat several pieces of toast before dozing off again.

The second evening comes and Jack decides to go back into work the next morning. Pamela, Cronin, and Kirill look uncomfortable with the decision.

"Are you sure," Cronin asks, breaking the tension filled silence. "You look like death warmed over."

Jack shrugs. "All the more reason to go in," he replies. "We can't have Harper suspecting that something's up." He catches Pamela looking at him with a peculiar expression.

She pushes herself off the counter, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the surface. "He's right," she finally says, much to Jack's surprise.

"Pam…" Cronin says testily with a frown on his face. "You're sending him into the lion's den. Harper may not be Noah Vosen or Jason Bourne, but he's dangerous all the same."

Kirill's eyes darken and there is something so deadly, so haunting, so noxious about the cast of his features that it makes Jack's gut churn.

"You are forgetting something, Tom," Pamela says, pointing at Jack. "He's already been in the lion's den and survived."

Cronin rolls his eyes as he shakes his head. "I know," he sighs. "I would just like to see him walk out of there alive."

"And he will," Pamela states, leaving no room for argument.

The plan is simple: Jack will go back into work and continue on with the original plan. He will find out the specifics of the drop and let Pamela handle the specifics of back up.

"We'll arrest you with everyone else in the raid," Pamela tells him. "Once you are in CIA custody, we will transport you to a safe location for your testimony. We will record it and submit as evidence, along with the other intel you and Viktor gathered."

"Then what?" asks Kirill as his fingers brush against Jack's hand. "We disappear for while?"

Pamela tilts her head. "I dare say you know the drill, Viktor."

"If we disappear, we disappear together," Kirill says fiercely. "That is final. And Jack stay here with me. He is not safe in his apartment."

"I agree," Pamela replies.

It's that simple.

* * *

Jack returns to work the following day, wearing one of Kirill's button down shirts and tie under his suit. He is glad that his colleagues mistake his pale face and ever so slightly trembling body as signs of him recovering from the flu.

"You look like shit, kid," Harper says from the door, wrinkling his nose at Jack's appearance. "For a moment, I thought you had gone soft on me."

Jack forces a weak smile and shakes his head. "Only the stomach flu made me soft," Jack quips.

"And made you look like a ghost," Harper comments. "Are you sure you're okay to be here? You can take another sick day…"

Jack shrugs. "The worst of it is over and I'd rather be here than sitting on my couch watching crappy daytime television," he replies casually.

"You don't even own a television," Harper remarks before leaving to go back to his office.

Jack freezes, his blood running cold.

He doesn't own a television, that much is true.

Except Harper has never been inside of his apartment.

Jack finds Cronin in the cafeteria during the lunch time rush and making it seem like they are having a casual conversation, he whispers through gritted teeth, "He's been in my apartment."

"Are you sure?" Cronin utters as he grabs an apple from a stack of fruit.

Jack nods. "I'm sure."

He finds out for sure two days later when Jack is going back to his apartment to fetch an extra change of clothes. Kirill and him are the same height, but the Russian is broader in his shoulders and Jack has a more rotund ass.

His cell phone rings from the pocket of his pea coat and he recognizes it as the number of his apartment manager, who lives several floors above him.

"I don't want to alarm you, but your neighbor next door smelt something funny coming from your apartment," he says over the sound of keys jangling. "It's probably nothing…but you never know with these older buildings."

Jack is literally on the corner of his street, staring up at the apartment building in a panic. "Don't go in," he practically shouts into the phone.

"Like I said, it's probably nothing," the apartment manager tells him as he unlocks Jack's front door.

Jack starts to tremble. "But…"

The rest plays out like a bad action film: he looks up at the building just in time to see an explosion from his apartment, sending glass, brick, plaster, and god knows what else raining onto the once quiet street below. People scream and duck from the wreckage that falls straight down onto the sidewalk across the street.

Jack stands there paralyzed, holding his cell phone to his ear with his mouth hanging open. He has no idea how long he's there, watching his apartment burn, but eventually he pushes his way through the crowd.

And runs all the way to Kirill's apartment in the freezing cold.

When he arrives in the lobby of the Russian's apartment building, he sees the concierge slumped in his seat – his eyes open and staring blankly at Jack with a halo of red splattered on the wall behind him.

Swallowing, Jack takes out his cell phone and dials Pamela as he approaches the elevator.

"Jesus Christ," she hisses into the phone, picking up after the first ring. "We just got the news…are you okay?"

Jack swallows as the elevator doors open. "Harper is at the apartment," he says roughly.

"Where's Viktor?"

Jack watches as the numbers on the panel count up to the penthouse floor. "He's there," he tells her.

She hangs up without saying another word as the elevator stops at the penthouse. Jack steps into the familiar hallway, his nerves singing with fear, anger, and determination.

The door to Kirill's apartment is right in front of him, beckoning him to turn the handle and walk in to his death, except Jack has other plans.

He goes to the fire extinguisher and quietly opens the door where a Walther P99, Kirill's favorite weapon of choice, resides with a fully loaded barrel. He grabs the gun, setting his phone in its place.

Jack unlocks the safety and cocks the trigger before going to the door of the apartment. He presses on the handle, letting the door swing into the entry way.

He remembers Kirill's training, his words ringing in his ears as Jack slowly makes his way into the apartment. It's lit up as usual – warm and welcoming, but eerily quiet.

Usually when he would arrive, he would hear Kirill's voice or the soft melody of music playing from the stereo system. The Russian had a particular fondness for the Rolling Stones and their best of album _Hot Rocks_ would always be on repeat.

Jack breathes out his nose and keeps his steps quiet until he passes the kitchen and sees Kirill sitting at the seldom used dining room table. He keeps the gun trained in front of him, ready to fire, just like Kirill taught him.

Their eyes meet and Jack can see the silent warning glinting in those hazel eyes.

"We've been waiting for you," Harper says, his voice coming from behind Kirill.

Jack takes another step towards the table, keeping his eyes on the Russian and saying nothing. As he draws closer, he sees Harper standing behind Kirill with a gun pressed against his back.

Harper looks absolutely livid to see Jack standing there, though not entirely surprised. "I should have realized that something was off when we found you in Minsk," he says calmly. "Something didn't add up – you were too well fed, your bruises weren't consistent with being tortured…the way you reacted to Cathy's death. I remember when you were so madly in love with her and begged me to keep her out of the Cherevin mess. You were practically on your hands and knees, tears in your eyes…"

"You mean Katarina Zhigunova," Jack replies.

Harper arches a brow. "Ah," he says, poking Kirill with the barrel of the gun. "You told him."

"He told me everything," Jack tells Harper, keeping his finger on the trigger. He licks his lips and takes a step closer. "I saw the file you kept on me, the information she filtered back to you."

Harper smiles tightly. "I thought you would be more impressed than angry, Jack. I went to so much trouble to ensure that you fell into my hands…"

"You _played_ me," Jack growls.

"So what if I did? You did the exact same thing to me," Harper snaps, his voice rising with each word that comes plummeting out of his mouth. "Hell, I'm sure that Viktor here played you to a degree…taking advantage of a grieving man and becoming his lover."

Jack feels his breath hitch in his throat.

"I never pegged you for a catcher, Jack," Harper comments in a snide tone. "With the way you used to mosey around the office, all cocky and confident…I would have bet money you would be the one doing the fucking." He pats Kirill's shoulder, ignoring the very visible flinch the Russian makes, and leans down next to his ear. "But I get it…Jack here is a handsome fellow. And you_ do_ have a _type_."

Jack watches as Kirill's nostrils flare in quiet rage.

Harper presses the gun deeper into Kirill's side. "He didn't tell you about Bourne, did he?" Harper taunts, pressing until Kirill lets out a pained groan. "I remember when Abbott found out about _that_ and goddamn was he pissed. You see, Jack, Viktor here loves his blue eyed boys. If I wasn't going to kill you both, I would say that maybe you and Jason Bourne have something to chat about."

"You shut up," Kirill hisses through his teeth.

Harper smiles down at him with every ounce of malicious intent. "That's right…he doesn't remember you, does he? Is that why you took up with Jack, here? To make the ghosts go away?"

"Keep talking, Bill," Jack snarls as he aims the barrel for his former mentor's skull.

Harper waves dismissively at the gun in Jack's hand. "Or you'll shoot me?" he asks. "I'll fire a bullet into his liver and he'll bleed out before Landy and her team can get here. Is that what you want, Jack? To have someone else die for you? Wasn't Cathy enough?"

"She died for _you_," he says through gritted teeth.

"Semantics," Harper replies.

Before Jack can respond or blink, Kirill makes a sudden move. His hand grabs Harper's wrist, jerking it away from his body. The Russian uses all of his weight to slam Harper into the cabinet behind them, the glass shattering over both of them.

Harper has a firm grip on the gun in his hand and fights Kirill tooth and nail from having it pried from his fingers. Somehow, he gets the upper hand and straddles Kirill's waist, pointing the gun at him.

In the span of heartbeats, Jack sprints from the spot he once occupied and is behind Harper, pulling the trigger of his gun just as Harper fires a bullet into Kirill.

He sees blood spray out from the exit wound in Harper's forehead as the man slumps over, crumbling onto the floor next to the Russian, who lies still against the hardwood.

"Viktor," Jack whispers as he drops the gun and rushes over to Kirill, skidding against the rapidly growing pool of blood and dropping to his knees. He sees Kirill's hazel eyes staring up at him, struggling to keep open, as blood from a wound near his chest pukes onto the material of his shirt and the floor.

Jack presses his hands against the bullet hole, applying as much pressure as possible to stem the bleeding. "Stay with me," he demands, his eyes filling with tears. "Viktor, stay with me."

Kirill continues gazing at him, his lips moving wordlessly as his skin turns grey.

"Get the medics," Jack hears Pamela shout as a stampede barrels into the apartment.

Jack keeps the pressure on the wound, swallowing back the sob in his throat. "Viktor…please stay with me," he pleads. "Don't you dare die on me."

"_Ya lyublyu tebya_," Kirill whispers with a dazed smile on his stark white lips. "_Yagnenok, ya lyublyu tebya_."

As the medics rush into the apartment, Jack watches as those hazel eyes roll up into Kirill's skull in mute horror.

Then he screams. And no one stops him.


	5. Atonement

**Atonement**

Like there is a separate god for children and animals, Jack reasons that there must be one for ex-FSB agents.

Or Kirill is a lucky son of a bitch.

Or has a guardian angel.

Jack sits next to Pamela with Kirill's blood staining his clothing and skin in the surgical floor's waiting room. He is chalk white and glassy eyed and desperately waiting for news on his lover's condition.

And praying to every god or deity he can think of, begging them to keep the Russian alive.

One of them is listening and when the surgeon comes out through the doctors of the surgical ward, giving them a nod, Jack finally breathes a shaky sigh of relief.

"He's lost a lot of blood," the surgeon explains as he leads Jack and Pamela to Kirill's private room in ICU.

Jack vaguely hears the words transfusion, oxygen, and fluids as they walk down the quiet hallway. He doesn't care what the doctors had to do to keep Kirill alive, so long as he's alive and will become whole again.

Kirill's room is guarded by an agent, who nods at Pamela and Jack as the surgeon patiently holds the door open.

The room is dimly lit and the monitors cast an eerie blue light across the prone body in the hospital bed. A nurse is draping a blanket over Kirill's body, pulling it up to his collarbones, and asking him in a quiet voice if he needs anything else.

It's then that Jack realizes that the Russian is awake as he groggily shakes his head and his eyelids flutter shut. The oxygen mask fastened to his face fogs up with each exhale and muffles the sound of Kirill's voice as he mumbles in Russian. There are lines of tubes and wire surrounding him, pumping fluid and medication into Kirill's veins.

Somewhere under the light blue hospital gown is the bullet wound that nearly ended his life, sewn up and bandaged. Soon it will be just another scar amidst the other ones that litter Kirill's skin, just another place for Jack's lips to linger as he explores the Russian's body.

"He's going to be groggy for a little while," the surgeon cautions as he takes Kirill's chart from the nurse. He flips through the chart and nods, satisfied. "But I'm upgrading him to serious, but stable condition. We'll be able to discharge him in a week, maybe two."

Jack moves to Kirill's bedside without asking for permission, needing to feel the warm skin of his lover under his hand. He sits down in the chair next to the bed and stares at the Russian, who has dropped off into a fitful doze.

He eases Kirill's hand out from under the blankets just enough so Jack can wrap his fingers around the Russian's. He strokes the pad of his thumb against the top of Kirill's knuckles, gently squeezing them every so often.

"Jack," Pamela calls softly as she stands across the bed, watching him. He looks up, seeing that they are alone in the hospital room. "They are bringing in a cot for you to sleep on, since I figured you'd rather stay here."

Jack swallows down the thump in his throat. "Thank you," he says in a hoarse voice.

"And someone is bringing you a change of clothes from the apartment," she says, indicating his soiled clothing with a polite nod of her head. "Do you need anything else? Books? Your laptop?"

Jack nods. "There's a book on the dresser," he mumbles, turning his gaze to the Russian, who is still asleep and oblivious the activity surrounding him. "He keeps a box in the top drawer. It's a chess set. He'll want to play when he's able."

"I'll make sure they bring it over," Pamela replies. She looks at Kirill and smiles ever so slightly. "I saw the job you did on Harper. Nice shot."

Jack shrugs. "I figured I owed him one."

"I hope that the last thing that went through his head was 'how the hell did Jack Ryan get the best of me'", she says in a bitter tone that surprises Jack. She shrugs, as if nothing is wrong.

"What happens now?" Jack asks.

Pamela folds her arms over chest and shifts her weight to one side. "Once Viktor is recovered, you two will go away for a while."

"Together?"

He knows how it sounds, but doesn't care. They need each other – plain and simple.

"Yes…together," she states. "Your names will be kept out of the press and if you chose to, you can return to work." She pauses, looking at Jack circumspectly. "With my team, of course," she adds, flashing him a smile.

Jack finds himself grinning back. "Of course," he echoes.

Kirill groans in his sleep, the sound muffled by the oxygen mask. His brow furrows as he adjusts his head against the pillow.

Jack reaches for him, brushing his thumb against the Russian's cheek. "Hey," he says softly as Kirill's eyes flutter open.

The Russian is drugged and sluggish, but somewhat aware of his surroundings. Jack can see him smiling through the plastic of the mask and his lips moving as Jack strokes his messy hair. Kirill relaxes into the touch, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Go back to sleep," Jack whispers, resting his forehead against Kirill's cheek. "_Moy pastukh_."

He hears a weak chuckle from Kirill, who nuzzles his stubble covered cheek against Jack's forehead before drifting back off.

"_Moy pastukh_?" Pamela inquires, one of her brows arching towards her hairline. "My shepherd?"

Jack nods, turning back to Kirill with a smile. "It suits," he replies.

* * *

The oxygen mask is replaced by a nasal cannula as Jack showers and changes into clothing that is clear of any ominous red stains.

The following morning, Kirill is upgraded to stable condition as Jack sleeps in the chair that will surely kill his back and neck, but it doesn't matter so long as the Russian's hand is held in his.

By mid-afternoon, Kirill is able to keep his eyes open for more than two minutes and uses that time to voice his annoyance of being confined to a hospital bed.

"You were shot in the chest," Jack reasons with rueful smile on his lips. They are squeezed together on the hospital bed, ignoring the peculiar stares they get from the medical staff.

Kirill casts a feral look in his direction. "You say this like it's a bad thing," he grumbles, then hisses through his teeth when he tries to move.

Jack raises a brow and shakes his head. "Take it easy," he tells Kirill as he reaches for a cup of ice chips and spoon.

He feeds Kirill the ice chips, watching as his lover begrudgingly sucks on them and swallows. When Kirill sticks his lower lip out in a pout, Jack leans over and kisses him soundly as he tries to contain his laughter.

It doesn't matter than Kirill falls asleep mid-kiss and sleeps for the rest of the day, he's alive and warm under the weight of Jack's hands that cradle his fingers.

On the third day of Kirill's hospital stay, Jack ventures down to the cafeteria to stretch his legs and grab a sandwich rather than ordering room service. Kirill is asleep, having tired after half a round of chess, when he leaves the hospital room.

He decides to eat in the courtyard and take his time since Kirill won't be waking anytime soon. A half hour later, Jack wanders back to the hospital room and finds Pamela and Cronin standing outside the door. They are deep in conversation, though their eyes are glued to the activity in the room.

Jack picks up his pace and as he's about to ask Pamela what's going on, he sees a man whose dirty blonde hair is greying at the temples standing over Kirill's sleeping form.

He doesn't say a word as he steps into the room, earning a lethal stare from the palest blue eyes that Jack has ever seen. Jack stops dead in his tracks, which seems to pacify the man who turns back to Kirill.

The man is probably in his late thirties, early forties and has a chiseled jaw that could easily cut glass. He is able bodied and could snap Jack's neck before he realized what was happening.

Why he's standing over Kirill's bed makes Jack curious - perhaps an old friend - _and_ nervous. Clearly Pamela knows this strange man and feels comfortable enough to let him into the room unattended, but it doesn't ease the knot in Jack's stomach.

"She told me about you," the man says without looking at Jack.

Jack shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "She…Landy?" he asks.

The look of complete and utter contempt and that critical brow says it all. He lets out a sigh before turning back to Kirill, eyeing the Russian and taking in every detail in front of him. "The last time I saw him, he was half dead in a tunnel in Moscow," he muses more to himself than Jack.

It's then Kirill's voice fills his head, containing a puzzle piece and an answer to a question that Jack never asked.

_Last time I saw him was in a tunnel and he had gun pointed at my skull. He did not shoot and left._

"Bourne," Jack whispers, earning a curious look from the man. "You're Jason Bourne," he says louder this time.

He watches as Bourne just nods. Jack half expects the man to bolt at the mention of his name, a black mark in CIA history.

But Bourne doesn't bulge. He is firmly rooted to his spot next to Kirill's bed and his eyes are back on the Russian, watching every breath and flutter of movement.

"Do you remember him?" Jack questions, choosing his words carefully.

A flicker of sadness glosses over Bourne's features for the briefest of moments. It's a silent answer, affirming all the reasons why this man is here. "I remember we were…" his voice trails off as he swallows roughly. "I know there was something. I don't remember the details."

They exchange a look before they each lapse into a silence that lasts for a good ten minutes before Jack clears his throat to speak.

"I don't think he's angry with you," Jack says.

Bourne shrugs. "I guess you can't really be angry at someone who doesn't remember," he replies darkly.

_No,_ Jack thinks to himself, _I suppose you can't._

"Well," Bourne says, clearly uncomfortable. "I should go before he wakes up." He moves, almost soundlessly, and brushes past Jack. He suddenly grabs Jack's elbow and looks him dead in the face. "And don't tell him I was here."

Jack shakes his head. "I can't lie to him," he replies, insistent.

Bourne's eyes drift to Kirill, who remains oblivious and comfortably wrapped in the throes of unconsciousness. It's like he's trying to remember something, anything to connect him to the Russian, but his mind fails him. Finally Bourne turns to Jack, letting go of his elbow. "Take care of him," he orders, though his tone is gentle.

He leaves before Jack can reply.

"I will," he promises to no one before going to Kirill's side.

* * *

_Five Months Later_

Their post-mission days go something like this: they settled on Madeira because it's easier for them to blend in with the rest of the tourists and Kirill likes the Mediterranean climate.

Not that Jack disagrees as he rests in the hammock of their villa that overlooks the Atlantic. He has a glass of Poncha clutched lazily in one hand that dangles off the side and a book folded on his chest, forgotten as he dozes in the afternoon shade.

It's the perfect way to spend their extended vacation, to be honest, and Jack thinks that he could get used to this.

A sun warmed hand gently pries his glass out of his hand and he hears it being set down on the cobble stones. Jack's lips twitch in a smile, though he does not open his eyes. "If you wanted some, you could just ask," he chirps as Kirill eases into the hammock and curls alongside him.

"Poncha is too sweet," Kirill purrs into Jack's neck as his hand snakes up the front of his shirt, thick fingers teasing the hair on his stomach. "I prefer beer or vodka."

Jack hums in agreement, rubbing his temple against Kirill's hair, damp from a shower. "How was your run?" he asks, moving his arm under Kirill's head.

"It was good," Kirill tells him, adjusting his neck against Jack's muscles. "How was reading?"

Jack shrugs. "Started nodding off in the middle of my chapter," he admits breezily, earning a chuckle from the Russian.

They lapse into silence, letting the sounds of nature and the crashing of waves fill the quiet. There is a warm breeze that gently pushes the hammock to and forth, lulling them both into a light doze.

Eventually Kirill kisses Jack awake, murmuring Russian into his skin as his fingers slip under the waistband of his cargo shorts and palms Jack's hardening cock through his boxer briefs. "You should not bother with underwear," Kirill whispers, his tongue flicking against his favorite spot on Jack's neck.

Jack doesn't reply so much as he shudders as Kirill's thumb brushes over the tip of his head, leaving a pleasant itch along the sensitive skin. "I'll keep it in mind for next time," he pants as Kirill sucks on his neck.

"Next time," Kirill says, blowing onto Jack's salvia damp skin, "you will be naked."

Jack is about to protest until Kirill starts to stroke his length in maddeningly slow strokes that makes his brain fizzle and go blank in pleasure.

"That's it," the Russian teases as Jack bucks his hips against his closed fist. "Like that."

The torture of Kirill's hand wrapped around his cock, playing it expertly, only lasts for a few more minutes. Kirill ends up dragging Jack back into the villa and depositing him on the couch, where the Russian devours his mouth as his nimble fingers pull off their scant clothing.

Jack gasps as Kirill's lube slick finger breaches his hole, working him open and croaking his digit just so that it brushes against his prostate. Jack ruts against the Russian's thigh, pleading and gasping for more that start coming in harsh, near sobs.

Kirill flips them over once he's sure that his three fingers have stretched Jack's passage enough and pulls his lover on top of him, letting Jack sink onto his slick erection. When Kirill is fully seated inside of Jack's tight heat, they both moan.

It's rare that Kirill lets Jack set the pace during their lovemaking, though Jack doesn't mind as he rises and falls on the cock in his ass. Kirill always knows what Jack wants, like his pleasure is just as much of a part of the Russian's own.

Jack lets out a cry when Kirill strokes the throbbing erection that bounces between them as Jack moves. He plants a hand flat against his chest to steady himself. "I'm not going to last long," Jack stammers as Kirill paces his hand in time with Jack's hips.

"We have all day," Kirill replies, looking up at him with those hazel eyes, so clear, so vivid in the afternoon light.

Jack groans at those words, so full of promise. His orgasm pools in his gut, making his breath come in sharp, short gasps. "Oh god," he moans as Kirill evilly thrusts into him, hitting that spot that lights him up and causes him to lose his mind.

He barely lasts another stroke when Jack clenches down on Kirill's cock and comes with abandon, bringing the Russian's release moments after his own. Jack collapses on top of him, his limbs limp and useless, and not caring that he's lying in his own semen.

"All day you said?" Jack finally manages to slur.

Kirill brings his arms around Jack, holding him close to his sizzling body. "_Da_," he replies. "All day."

Another round of love making in the comfort of their bed, plus a post-coital nap later, Jack finds Kirill in the kitchen making dinner just as the sun is starting to hover over the horizon.

The Russian's back is to him, all golden sun kissed skin and freckles that dot his shoulders and the column of his spine, as he cooks.

"It's _Pelmeni_," Kirill says without prompting as Jack wraps his arms from behind. He presses his lips to Jack's hair before continuing preparing their meal. "It was a favorite dish when I was boy. I thought you might like it."

Jack smiles against his lover's shoulder and nods. In all honesty, Kirill's culinary expertise is nothing short of amazing and Jack hasn't eaten this well since…ever really.

They dine on the patio as the sun sets over the island, lighting the evening sky on fire. Their chatter and laughter fills the warm air and carries on as they go inside to clean up.

It's a quiet, possibly mundane life to some, but it's the life that Jack always envisioned he would have. There are some adjustments that have been made to what he had pictured, making it all the more poignant.

He never asks Kirill what he thinks of their life because he already knows just by looking at the Russian's face – the awe, the relief, the trust.

It's a strange way to amend the past, Jack knows this for sure, but it works for them and he does not question it.

As he crawls into bed later that night, Jack presses himself close to Kirill who is propped up against his pillows with a book. By the light of the bedside lamp, he can see the puckered skin on the Russian's chest from Harper's bullet and reaches out to touch it with his fingers, stroking it idly.

"I'm glad we didn't go back," Jack tells him, glancing up at Kirill who smiles down at him.

It had been a mutual decision they made shortly after arriving on the island and a decision that Pamela Landy respected. She did occasionally call on them for consulting, which suited them just fine as they did it remotely. It paid well, besides.

He sets the book down on the bedside table and slumps down, taking Jack's hand into his own. "I told you that you would not want to leave," he teases. "I am always right, yes?"

Jack wrinkles his nose before scooting closer and resting his head against Kirill's deltoid. He sighs in content as Kirill wraps an arm around him, stroking the small of his back. "Mostly," he yawns.

"I like this life," Kirill says against Jack's hair. "This life we have. It is good life. I do not want it to change."

Jack beams at the sentiment as he closes his eyes. "So it won't," he replies. "I won't let it happen."

"_Yagnenok_," Kirill chuckles. "Stubborn boy."

Jack nods. "Your stubborn boy."

Kirill chuckles in agreement as he stretches to switch off the lamp, soaking the bedroom in moonlight. "_Ya lyublyu tebya_," he whispers in the darkness.

"I love you, too," he replies, his lips brushing against Kirill's warm skin.

Entwined, they sleep.


End file.
